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"We didn't look at the back section properly," I tell him, stirring the bigger pot with one hand, gesturing at nothing in particular with the other. "That Sunday. We got completely derailed before we even got to the back."

"By the copper pots," he says. He already knows.

"You stood in front of them for eleven minutes. I know because I timed it on my phone and sent a voice note about it to no one."

A pause. The dry kind, the one that means he's faintly amused and has decided not to let it all the way through. "I was appreciating craftsmanship."

"You were communing with them. There is a meaningful difference and I think we both know which one was happening."

He says nothing, which is how he confirms things he finds unproductive to argue. I can see him in my peripheral vision, elbow on the counter, chin resting on his hand, watching me with that expression that lives somewhere in the vicinity of comfortable — not warm, exactly, not the kind of warm that announces itself, but the quiet settled version of it, the kind that doesn't need to be performed because it is simply true.

He has a small collection of comfortable expressions and I have catalogued every one of them over time, privately, in the part of me that pays attention to him the way you pay attention to something you want to keep understanding. I do not tell him about this catalogue. Some things are mine.

"Anyway," I say, reaching for the smaller ladle, checking the broth, deciding it needs another minute. "I want to go back. Properly this time, all the way to the back. Because there was a whole blender section we didn't get to." I glance at him over my shoulder.

"Because you said — when we were walking past, you mentioned that you find them fascinating. The mechanism of it or something. How something can be that simple and move that fast." I turn back to the pot.

"So I want to know which kind you'd want."

The kitchen goes quiet in that slightly different way, the way that means something has shifted in the quality of the air rather than just the sound. I turn back to the stove and start telling him what I looked up this week, the blade configurations and the motor grades and the base weight question, because I did look it up, because I found myself thinking about it on a Tuesday for no particular reason I was going to investigate and so I just — looked it up. Read about it. Now I know considerably more about blenders than the average person needs to know and I'm choosing to deploy that knowledge in this moment like it's normal, like it's nothing, because to me it is nothing. It is just a thing I did because he mentioned a thing once and I was listening and I wanted to know more. That is just how I am. I have made my peace with how I am.

I am midway through explaining torque when I notice the bigger pot starting to roll, the soup moving with that restless almost-boiling energy, and without thinking, without any conscious gap between noticing and doing, I reach over and pick up the wooden spoon and stir his bowl. Slow circles. Making sure nothing is sitting wrong at the bottom, making sure the heat is distributing the way it should, making sure it is right for him even though it cannot hurt him and he doesn't need it and the practical reason for doing it does not exist.

He cannot be burned. He told me. I know.

My hand moved anyway. My hand moved because the soup was boiling and he was there and that is the only explanation I have, that is the entirety of it, and I set the spoon back down and keep talking about torque like nothing happened.

I don't notice I've gone quiet until I look up.

He is looking at his bowl.

Not at me. Not at the window or his hands or the middle distance he sometimes looks at when he is thinking something he hasn't decided to share yet. At the bowl. At the exact place where the spoon moved through it.

And his face — his face is doing something I have only seen it do a handful of times in all the months I have known him, something that happens when his management of himself slips for just a moment, when something gets through the careful architecture of his expression before he can redirect it. His jaw has gone very slightly loose.

The set of him, that particular composed gravity he carries like a coat he was born in, has softened at the edges in a way that makes him look — not young, exactly. Not inexperienced. Something else. Something that does not have a clean word but lives in the neighborhood of unheld. Like something receiving a warmth it has no existing framework for and is trying, very quietly, not to show that it doesn't know what to do with it.

I look away. I look back at the stove and I continue talking about blenders and I give him the privacy of not being watched having it, because some things a person needs to have alone even when they are having them in your kitchen, and I have learned that about him slowly and specifically, the places where the pressure needs to come off, and I just take it off. Without announcing it. Without making it a thing he has to respond to. I just turn back to the stove and let him have the moment and keep talking, and that is also a form of consideration, I think. The kind that doesn't ask to be seen.

"The base weight," I say, and my voice comes out even, "is really the main thing. You want it heavy enough that it doesn't move across the counter when you run it at full speed."

A long beat. Two. Three.

"You looked this up," he says.

It is not an accusation. It is not quite a question. It is something that lives between those two things, something careful and slow, something that is trying to figure out what it is holding and whether it is allowed to hold it.

"Yeah," I say. I shift the pot slightly off the direct heat. "You mentioned it once and I was curious."

"You were curious," he repeats, and his voice has gone quieter than it was, "about blenders."

"About what specifically you'd find interesting about them. Which led me to blenders generally." I shrug. He can see it from where he's sitting. "It wasn't a thing. I just wanted to know."

The silence that follows is different from the earlier ones. Thicker somehow. More present. I get two bowls from the cabinet — the good ones, the ones with the slightly uneven rims I found at a ceramics market last spring and carried home on the bus holding them in my lap because I didn't want them to break — and start ladling the soup into them. The sound of it fills the kitchen. Outside, a car passes. The pipes settle into themselves.

"You do that," he says.

"Do what." I bring both bowls to the counter and climb onto my stool, pulling my knees up to sit cross-legged the way I always do without thinking about it, the way I've always done in my own kitchen.

He looks at me. Actually looks, the way he does when he has stopped performing attention and is simply paying it, when the distance he usually keeps between observing and being affected has collapsed without his permission.

The kitchen light catches the edge of him in a way that makes him look almost painterly, almost unreal, and I think for the hundredth time that there is something genuinely absurd about how beautiful he is and how little he seems to register it, the way the very beautiful sometimes don't, the way it becomes just a fact of existence rather than a thing they carry.

His eyes are very dark tonight. Something is moving behind them that he hasn't decided what to do with yet.

I wait. I have learned how to wait for him, which sounds like a small thing and is not a small thing at all. Every instinct I have wants to fill the silence, wants to reach across and make it easier, wants to hand him the words before he has to find them himself.

With him I have had to learn to sit on that instinct. Not because he doesn't want the help but because he needs the space of finding it himself, because the finding is part of what makes it real for him, and so I just sit with my soup and I wait and I let the kitchen be quiet.

"You remember things," he says finally. His hands have come around his bowl, not to eat, just to hold it, and I notice that the way I notice everything about him — the way he sometimes holds warm things like he is reminding his hands of the sensation of warmth, like it is something he has to keep relearning.

"Small things. Things I say once, in passing, without meaning them as anything important. You keep them." He pauses. The thumb of his right hand moves along the rim of the bowl, slow and absent. "You account for me."

I look at him steadily. "Yes," I say.

"Why."

And it lands so plainly. So completely without performance or rhetoric or anything built around it. Just the word, set down between us on the counter like something he has been carrying for a while and has finally, in this warm small kitchen at this late hour, decided to put down. He is genuinely asking. He is sitting in his pajamas holding soup he doesn't need and asking me, with the most undefended face I have ever seen on him, why I account for him. Like the answer is something he has turned over and over on his own and could not find.

I set my spoon down. I give him the full weight of looking back at him.

"Because I consider you," I say. "That's the whole answer. That's all of it."

He is quiet. I watch his face.

"I consider you," I say again, slower, because I want him to actually receive it and not just hear it.

"That means I think about you when you're not here. I think about what you'd want, what you'd find interesting, what would make something easier or better or just — nicer for you. Not because I'm trying to be impressive at loving someone. Not because I want something back from it. Just because you are a person who exists in my life and that means you take up space in my thinking. Naturally. Without me deciding to do it. You're just — there. In my head. When I'm looking up blenders on a Tuesday. You're there."

Something crosses his face. Fast, like weather. A kind of pain that isn't new, isn't fresh, is the very specific pain of something that has been tender for a long time being touched in the place it keeps the tenderness. His jaw stays still but his eyes do something — go somewhere briefly and come back.

"People have —" he starts. Stops. His thumb is still moving on the bowl.

"People have what," I say softly.

He looks at the bowl for a long moment. I watch his face do the thing it does when he is deciding how far to go — that small internal negotiation, that measuring of distance, that question of whether this is a place it is safe to move through. I have watched him do this many times and I have learned not to move while he is doing it, not to lean in, not to make it feel like a performance he has to deliver on demand. I just stay here. I just stay.

"People have wanted things from me," he says finally, and his voice is quiet in the way of something that has been made quieter by intention, by the conscious lowering of a thing that would otherwise be too much. "For a very long time. In many forms. There have been people who loved me more than was good for them, who would have taken themselves apart for a word from me, who built their entire interior world with me at the center of it." He pauses.

"And every time, without exception, underneath the love, there was a shape they needed me to hold. Something they were asking me to be, or to keep being, or to confirm by continuing to exist in a particular way. Love has always been — conditional is not the right word, because I don't think they knew the condition was there. But there was always something. Something required. Something at the bottom of it that was about them and not about me." He is very still.

"I learned to find the thing. The thing being asked. I learned to manage around it. That is how I have moved through most of my relationships with people."

I don't say anything. I keep my face open and I let him keep going.

"What you do," he says, "I notice it. I notice all of it and then I —" He stops. His jaw tightens for just a moment. "I look for the thing. The thing underneath. The condition. And I cannot find it."

He looks up at me and there is something in his expression that I can only describe as the particular frustration of someone who is very intelligent being confronted with something their intelligence cannot resolve. "And I know — I know it's real. I know you. I know the difference. And something in me asks anyway. Something in me goes looking for the catch. Every time. Even now." A pause so brief it almost isn't one.

"Even right now, sitting here, I am asking myself what you want from this. And I know you don't want anything. And I ask anyway."

I feel something move in my chest.

"I know," I say, and I mean it completely, not as a comfort but as a fact. "I know you do that."

"That doesn't —" He stops. Looks at me in a way that is almost searching. "That doesn't frustrate you?"

"No."

"Why not."

I think about this for a moment. I think about all the ways I could answer it and I reach for the most honest one.

"Because I understand where it comes from. And understanding where something comes from doesn't make it not real, it doesn't make it disappear, but it means I don't take it personally. Your doubt isn't about me. It's about everything that taught you that love has a bottom to it, a place where the asking lives. That's not yours by choice. That's yours by what happened to you." I pause.

"I'm not going to punish you for it."

His face does something I don't have a word for. Something that happens deep behind his eyes, something that isn't quite pain and isn't quite relief but contains elements of both, the way something can hurt and ease at the same time when you have been holding it alone for too long and someone finally puts their hands on the other side of it.

"I don't understand why you do it," he says, and his voice has gone very quiet. Not wounded. Something more disoriented than wounded. "I have thought about it. I have — I watch you. I watch you do these small things, these things you don't even seem to notice you're doing, and I think — I try to find the logic of it. Why you would spend a Tuesday looking up blenders because of something I said once. Why you would stir soup for someone who cannot be burned. Why you would —" He pauses. Something flickers across his face.

"Why you would just. Keep making room. For me. Without being asked. Without requiring anything in return. I keep looking for the logic and I cannot find it and I cannot decide if that frightens me or —"

He stops.

"Or what," I say.

He looks at me for a long moment. The kitchen hums. The pipes, the light, the small sounds of a building at night.

"Or if it is the first time in a very long time," he says slowly, "that something has not needed to be figured out."

I feel my eyes go warm and I blink once and look at the counter for a second because I need a moment and I am not going to make this about my feelings, this is not the moment for that. I look back at him.

"Can I tell you something," I say.

He nods. Very slightly.

"Consideration is not a complicated thing," I say. "I think we make it sound like one because we're not used to it, most of us, we're not used to being on the receiving end of it and so when it happens it feels like it must mean something enormous, must be the result of some extraordinary effort or feeling. But it's not. It's just — decency. It's the most ordinary form of love there is." I pause, gathering it, wanting to get this right.

"It's just the act of including someone in your thinking. Voluntarily. Without waiting to be asked. You exist, so I think of you. You're here, so I make room. That's all. That's every bit of it. The blender, the soup, the remembering — none of it is grand. None of it costs me anything I'd miss. I just think of you, and then I do something about it, and that's it. That is the full picture."

He is so still. The kind of still that is the opposite of absence.

"And here is the thing I need you to hear," I say, and my voice has gotten quieter without my meaning it to, the way voices get when they are carrying something they don't want to drop.

"You deserve that."

"Not because you've earned it. Not because you've been good or careful or managed yourself correctly around me. Just because you exist. Just because you're here. That's the whole qualification. You're here and you're you and that's enough, that has always been enough, and I know nobody has told you that in a way you were able to believe, I know the people who loved you before loved you for what you were to them and not just for what you are, and I'm —" I stop.

I feel it pressing at the back of my eyes again and I let it be there this time, I don't blink it away.

"I'm so sorry that that was what love looked like for you. For such a long time. I'm so sorry that love always had a job for you."

He is looking at me with an expression I have never seen on him before. Not in all the months of collecting them. It is open in a way that is almost alarming, almost too much, like a door in a wall you didn't know had a door — and behind it something that is very old and very tired and has been waiting, maybe without knowing it was waiting, for someone to just. Say that. To just say that you deserved better than what you were given. To say it plainly, without agenda, without asking for anything back.

His eyes are bright. Just slightly. In the warm kitchen light.

"You're going to tell me," he says, and his voice is very controlled, "that I do it too. That I consider you. That I move your glass when you set it too close to the edge."

"You do," I say. "You do it all the time."

"That's different."

"How."

He is quiet for a moment. "It doesn't feel the same from the inside."

"I know," I say. "That's because nobody ever counted it for you. Nobody ever pointed at the thing you were doing and said — that. That right there. That is you loving someone. You've been doing it this whole time and no one ever gave it back to you as something real." I look at him steadily.

"I'm counting it. I have been counting it."

Something in him gives. Not in the way of something breaking. More like the way a held breath releases, slow and almost involuntary, the way the body eventually stops being able to hold something even when the mind is still trying. His shoulders drop a fraction. His hands, still around the bowl, go very slightly loose.

"I don't know how to be loved like this," he says. Quietly. Just stating it. Not as an apology, not as a warning, just as the plainest truth he has said tonight.

"I don't have the — I wasn't given the architecture for it. The kind where there's no cost. The kind that's just — there. I keep waiting for the place where it ends or changes or shows me its real shape. I keep waiting for the version of you that wants something from this."

"I know," I say again, because I do, because I have known this about him from early on and I chose him anyway, chose this, chose the waiting he does and the doubt he carries and the spikes and all of it, chose it with my whole eyes open.

"And you stay anyway," he says.

"And I stay anyway."

He looks at me for a long moment. Something is happening in him that he is not managing, not redirecting, just — allowing, maybe for the first time in a long time, just letting something move through him without immediately figuring out what to do with it. I watch it happen on his face. I keep my own face open and I stay very still, the way you go still when something rare comes close.

"Why," he says again, and this time it is different from the earlier "why. This one is smaller. This one is not looking for a logical answer. This one is — almost a confession. Like asking why is the only way he knows to say I don't know what to do with this and I'm trying.

"Because I love you," I say simply.

And then, before he can manage his response or redirect the moment or find the ironic angle of it. "Not the version of you that's useful to me or the version that performs well or the version that fits a particular shape I needed. Just you. This you. The one in the fuzzy slippers holding soup he doesn't need. The one who communes with copper pots. The one who —" my voice does something here, wavers just slightly, just enough to be audible, and I let it.

"the one who is so used to love having a job for him that he doesn't know what to do when it just shows up and sits down and asks for nothing." I pause.

"That one. I love that one."

The silence that follows is not empty. It is so full it is almost a sound.

He reaches across the counter. Slowly. And puts his hand over mine. Not the other way around this time. His hand, finding mine, deliberate and careful, like something that has made a decision and is following through on it before it can think too much. His fingers settle over my knuckles and he doesn't say anything and I don't say anything and the kitchen holds us in its warm yellow light.

After a long moment he says, very quietly. "The basil is dying."

I laugh. I can't help it, it comes out soft and watery and slightly embarrassing, and I look at the windowsill where the basil is indeed at one of its lower moments, one large leaf gone completely yellow at the edge.

"It's been dying for three weeks," I say. "We've discussed it."

"You haven't moved it."

"I know."

"It needs the east light. In the morning." He is looking at it with the expression of someone who has made a decision and is not opening it back up for debate. "I'll move it tomorrow."

Something settles in my chest. Something warm and specific and enormous that I do not try to name.

"Okay," I say.

"I'll be here in the morning."

I look at him. He is looking at the basil. He has just told me, in the language he uses for things he cannot say directly, that he is staying. That he will be here when the morning comes through the east window. That he is choosing to be here, for the basil, for the light, for me — all of it the same thing wrapped in a plant he doesn't want to watch me accidentally kill.

"Okay, Armand," I say.

He looks at me. This new expression again, the one I found tonight that I don't have a word for yet. Open and careful and slightly undone and underneath all of it, underneath every layer of him, just — glad. Quietly, specifically, without agenda. Just glad to be in this kitchen at this hour with cold soup going cold between us and a dying basil on the windowsill and someone who looked up blenders on a Tuesday.

Just glad.

"The soup is cold," he says.

"It reheats fine."

"It doesn't."

"I'm going to heat it up."

"You don't have to."

But I am already off my stool, already reaching for the bowls, and he watches me do it with that complete attention of his, and the kitchen is warm, and outside the city is still going, and tomorrow he will move the basil to the east window, and tonight his hand was on mine across the counter, and I am not thinking about what any of this means or where it ends up or whether we are heading toward something or just living inside it already — I am just here, just in this, just in love with a cactus who is slowly, very slowly, learning that it is safe to be touched.

That is enough. That is so much more than enough.

I put the soup on low heat and I look over my shoulder at him and he is looking back at me and there is nothing else to say tonight and we both know it and neither of us minds.

The rosemary is fine.

The basil will be moved tomorrow.

The rest can wait.

— this was a good vision :)) if you have any more fic ideas, don't hesitate to send them under my asks! 🍂

The Martyrdom of St. Sebastian - Marius de Romanus

You straightened up and let your hand linger on his shoulder for a moment. He wouldn’t move from that spot until he owned the painting.

When the bidding was closed he found you in the bedroom on your own iPad. You looked up as he walked in. The blank expression he wore was a familiar sight. He didn’t look sad or dejected as others might. Sometimes he simply didn’t emote. But his eyes would betray him. He didn’t make eye contact with you right away. However, he wouldn’t have come to you if he wanted to be alone.

He thought often, spoke less, about broken things, people he had loved. He rarely spoke of those who had broken him. Sometimes you caught a glimpse of him when he felt unobserved and the vacancy in his eyes would be filled with regret and remorse.

“You own a new painting?” You asked with no inflection. You closed the iPad’s cover and set it on the night stand as he sat on his side of the bed. His back was to you, shoulders stiff.

“Yes.”

“When will it arrive?” You didn’t really need to know, but wanted him to know you understood the significance.

“Approximately 4-6 weeks,” his tone was flat. “Possibly sooner.”

“When was the last time you saw it?”

“500 years ago, give or take.”

“‘Give or take?’” He couldn’t see your raised brows.

“492, I believe.” His shoulders slumped slightly.

“What’s the provenance?” You didn’t expect him to answer.

“Venice, Milan, Prague, a few years unaccounted for, then Berlin,” his tone had changed. Rather, there was now tone to his words. The mildest hint of pain colored the city names. It had changed so many hands. It wasn’t rare for a painting to have been sold before the fire. It was the nature of the painting and who you could assume may have commissioned it, that concerned you. Possibly it was for the Church, but more likely for a private patron. Even so, had it been in a church, a museum? Hundreds of eyes moved by the martyrdom of a real boy who they would never think about. Did they even think of the model for Sebastian at all or only of the saint and his ecstasy? If Armand had wanted you to know that a public institution had once held it he would have said. You didn’t press.

You watched him as he slipped off his shoes and turned to sit more comfortably. His long fingers toyed with the crease of his pant leg. He stared off, looking at nothing, for a moment. Then he turned to you. Your heart ached for him. It did from time to time when he would casually mention something from his past, but this was different. You had only seen an expression like this a couple times before. You looked at him, unsmiling, but with a soft gaze, no judgement. For a moment he looked as if he would speak then he closed his mouth, his lips forming a tight line.

Armand wanted to tell you about the nausea he felt, a peculiar feeling, increasingly rare at his age, when the alert had appeared on his phone. He wanted to tell you that he even had an alert for Marius’s name, but he couldn’t. He had never told you everything, there was far too much to tell. But he had told you the broad strokes. He felt he might never tell anyone all of the details, those he could remember, except in the rare moments of weakness when he was jealous of Louis’s and Lestat’s ability to reveal everything.

You sat up straighter and moved toward him. You gently touched his face. He leaned into your hand as you cupped his cheek. His brow furrowed slightly and he closed his eyes. You stroked his cheek with your thumb. You let your hand slide down to his neck. He sighed quietly and when he opened his eyes to look at you, he became every bit the ancient creature trapped in a young man’s body. Every wrong done, every hurt inflicted, every lie told, by him and to him, turbulent beneath his ageless façade. Over 500 years of mistakes, violence, atonement, none of it truly forgotten.

Your fingers gently caressed the back of his neck as you held his gaze. You couldn’t conceal the expression on your face, the compassion and disconsolation. Slowly you moved your hand to his shoulder and guided him toward you. Armand gave in. He rested his head in your lap, his body folded up alongside your outstretched legs. You leaned back against the pillows and headboard. One hand automatically began stroking his hair, smoothing it back from his face. The other lay against his back, making small circles with your fingers against his shoulder blade.

He felt his shoulders relax first, then the tightness in his chest began to fade. He hadn’t realized tears had started to well in his eyes until he closed them. None came, but he was unsure how long they would stay away this time. He sighed heavily and let himself soften against you. Your steady, consistent movements were a balm to the raging of conflicting emotions inside him. He would think of them another day, perhaps when the painting arrived. Now, in this moment, he could rest.

Note about the painting: The Martyrdom of St. Sebastian, Marco Basaiti (active 1496-1530 in Venice), located in Santa Maria della Salute, Venice

It was girls' night. You weren't really a drinker, but you never disdained a glass or two occasionally.

That night two became six very quickly.

It was summer, humidity so intense the sundress you were wearing was completely glued to your skin, and the piña coladas were so refreshing you just kept ordering them.

You still managed to get home safely, the sober friend of the night dropping you off way after two in the morning. You had warned Armand you would have come home later than usual, so you weren't surprised to find him sitting comfortably on the sofa reading when you crossed the threshold of your apartment.

You didn't even get the chance to greet him because somehow you forgot about the little step you had after the front door, finding yourself tripping on the edge and crashing against the pillar at the entrance of the living room.

"Are you okay?" Armand asked you, closing the book in his hands softly before placing it next to him on the sofa.

"Never better."

You were slurring your words. You were aware of it, and yet that didn’t stop a little giggle from escaping your mouth at the sound.

You blinked a couple of times, trying to fully stand on your feet without the support of the pillar, but Armand was already by your side, a hand landing lightly on your shoulder.

"You are drunk, my love."

"Tipsy, not drunk," you said, pointing a finger in his direction. "I'm fully aware of my actions, I just can't stop myself from doing them."

"Sounds terrible."

"It's awful, actually."

You both stood there without moving for a few moments, you trying to evaluate how much balance was left in your body, and Armand providing comfort with soft caresses down your back.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

You nodded slowly. "I just need a moment and then I can go take a shower or a bath. There are safety hazards for both options at my current state."

Armand hummed softly, before leaning down to pick you up, both of his hands on the back of your thighs. You weren't expecting the movement, yet your body followed, legs wrapping safely around his waist.

You nuzzled you face in the side of his neck as he walked towards the bathroom, his lips dropping small kisses on your shoulder every couple of steps. Goosebumps raised on your skin at the contact, making you giggle again against him.

Armand placed you on the bathroom counter, his attention never straying away from you even as he stepped away for a couple of minutes to prepare the bathtub. He chose carefully which salts to put in the water, surely thinking about what was most beneficial to you in that moment.

You smiled softly watching him, swaying slightly from side to side, the alcohol still running strongly in your blood. You liked these moments where it felt like there was only the two of you hidden away in your little world, as he took care of you without a second thought.

It was so natural for him to love you. The same was for you.

"Why are you looking at me like that, my love?" Armand asked coming back to stand right in between your legs.

"I love you."

"If the saying in vino veritas is true, then I should trust your words."

"You should," you replied, your smile broadening on your face. "Do you love me too?"

Armand looked at you for a few seconds, admiring every inch of your face as one of his hand gently pulled a strand of your hair behind your ear. "There is no word to describe how intensely I love you. All the paths I embarked on in my long life led to you."

You could feel tears prickling the corner of your eyes, the alcohol a sly accomplice.

Armand sealed his words with a delicate kiss on your forehead, a second on your nose and a third on your lips. He was handling you so sweetly, making your body so pliant you were glad he was standing in front of you, otherwise you would have fallen on the floor.

"Let's get you into the tub," Armand whispered, while his hands moved slowly under your dress and started pulling it up and off your body. "I'll wash you."

"You don't have to do that, I can manage it on my own."

"You're still drunk. You would only fall asleep and drown in the tub."

"Tipsy, not drunk."

"You are not denying the second part." He was looking at you as if you were the most endearing creature on earth. And you were exactly where you wanted to be, under his watchful gaze.

You were sitting there in just your underwear now, enjoying the light breeze coming in from the open window. Armand gave your cheek a small caress with the back of his hand, before starting to undress himself.

"What are you doing?"

Armand looked at you with one of his eyebrows raised. "How can I bathe you properly, if I don't join you?"

"Oh."

It's been a while since you took a bath together. The idea making your heart beat faster.

Armand noticed it immediately, the side of his mouth quirking in a small smirk. "Are you flustered at the prospect of being naked with me in the tub? We've made love plenty of times and on every surface of this house. You should not be shy anymore."

You blushed at his words. What he said was right. And yet. "I know. It's just that every time you look at my body like it's the first. I always get butterflies in my stomach at the feeling of your eyes on my skin."

"Having the chance to worship your body is a blessing I'll never take for granted."

You bit your lip, trying to stop your blush from spreading even more. Every word coming out of his mouth went straight to your heart, making it blossom like flowers in the spring.

You moved forward with the intention to jump off the counter to take the rest of your clothes off, but Armand was already on you, his hands holding your hips and helping you down.

Once your feet landed securely on the cold tiles of the bathroom, you let your underwear and bra fall to the floor. You stepped towards the tub, turning around to look at Armand before getting inside.

A quiet sigh left your lips as your skin made contact with the warm water, Armand's eyes following your every movement. He took off his last clothes too, and this time it was your turn to admire his body. A different kind of sigh coming out of your mouth and filling the silent room.

You moved your body forward, so that Armand could step in behind you. You could hear and feel the water moving as he adjusted himself around your body, before he pulled you back against his chest to rest.

He was hard but neither of you paid it any mind, your focus directed only to the sensation of skin against skin.

Armand brushed his lips below your ear, and the tip of his nose on your cheek. "If it were up to me to decide, you would never leave my arms."

"A bit unpracticable, don't you think?"

"It's manageable."

You laughed softly. "It's not. Not even for you."

Armand hummed, the vibration resonating along your nerves and making you arch your back slightly.

"I love your skin, always so soft and so responsive to the touch."

"Your touch," you whispered in response, closing your eyes.

Armand held you even tighter hearing your words. His possessive nature raising to the surface, and you welcomed it gladly. You wanted him to know that you were his, that you were willing to let him have full control over your body and mind.

There was no need for you to say the words aloud, because you knew Armand was seeing everything inside your head. You could feel his presence there like a light caress.

Every single part of you was open for the taking and Armand always cradled you with extreme care.

"Mine," he remarked, his lips tracing a path along the skin of your neck and down your shoulder, as his hands under the water surface started to travel over and between your thighs.

It was going to be a long night, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

You opened your eyes again, turning your head to the side to look at him in the eyes. "Yours forever."

---

I hope you enjoyed it! If you feel like it I'd love to hear your thoughts! Xx

Taglist: @park4parks

You were ovulating.

That was clear.

You had been staring at Armand for quite some time now. Or better, you were staring at his hands busy rearranging his photographs collection.

They were always so elegant and beautiful, even with their sharp nails ready to cut you deeply if he desired.

And deeply you wanted them.

You mentally slapped yourself at the thought. You were not a horny teenager, it was not suitable for you to think or act like one.

"My love, I'm trying very hard not to dig into your thoughts right now, but it appears you're screaming them against the borders of my mind," Armand commented without diverting his attention from his task at hand, though a hint of amusement could be heard in his voice.

You mentally slapped yourself again. "I'm sorry. It's just—"

"Ovulation. Yes, I know."

You opened and closed your mouth a couple of times, eventually giving up when nothing came out. You just sat there on the sofa, staring at him with a blush on your face.

At least, there were a few metres between the two of you, with him standing at the table in the living room. You wouldn’t have been able to breathe properly if he were sitting next to you right now, given your current state.

You'd always had a high libido, but when previous partners pointed out that a woman should be more contained with her desires, you put a shackle on them. Asking less, even when you wanted more.

You applied the same method with Armand. You fucked or made love no more than twice a week, even though your body was ready for him every day. You didn't want him to think you were a nymphomaniac, or something similar.

"Don't push them down, my love."

"What?"

Armand had stepped closer to you while you were lost in your thoughts. He was standing in front of you now, staring you down with a small smile.

"You've been doing this for quite some time now. Are you ashamed of what your body desires?"

You took a deep breath, forcing yourself not to divert your gaze from his. "Maybe ashamed is a strong word, more like embarrassed."

"Why?"

"One of the many views society has of women that was ingrained in my brain since my teenage years. A woman should not be too open about her urges, she should adapt herself based on what her partner desires, if she doesn't want to be discarded." You were saying the words as if it were a sermon you were forced to learn for Sunday mass.

Armand inclined his head to the side, squinting his eyes slightly. "Do you care about societal norms?"

You shook your head. "Not really. But I cared about what my partners thought of me at the time, and so I am not comfortable in showing the extent of my needs openly anymore."

"Do I make you uncomfortable?"

"Never," you stated firmly. "I just don’t want you to think that I'm with you only for your body, especially considering your history."

Armand kneeled down in front you, the look in his eyes even softer than before. "Do you love me?"

"So much."

"Then you could never hurt me like that. What hurts me is you thinking you should hold back your desires for my sake."

You blinked at him, pondering on his words. "I don't want to ask for too much."

"Nothing you ask is too much," Armand replied, leaving a light kiss on your thigh, one of his hands resting on the back of your knee. "So tell me, what do you need right now?"

You took a deep breath, realizing in that moment you were sitting there in just a long t-shirt and panties. You were wet, and you knew Armand could see it perfectly from his position on the floor.

"I need you to touch me."

"You must be more specific, my love, I'm already touching you."

Fuck it.

"I want you inside me. Is that specific enough?"

Armand let out a small laugh, both of his hands rising and disappearing under the bottom of your shirt to get a hold of your panties. "Perfect."

He took your underwear down your legs with no hurry, his smile not faltering once. Armand seemed extremely pleased by this turn of events.

"Is three fine for you?"

You frowned at him in confusion. "I don't understand."

"Are three orgasms enough or do you want more?"

Your mouth opened in shock. "I never come more than twice."

"Never will not exist after tonight." Armand lifted your legs from the floor, putting them on his shoulders with ease. "Take off your shirt for me, my love."

You did as he asked quickly, before settling back in your previous position. You were fully exposed to Armand's gaze, and you welcomed the pleasant tingle running down your spine at the knowledge.

"Are you sure you're comfortable on the floor?"

"Yes."

Armand's mouth was on you in a second, his lips closing on your clit softly. He gave two tentative sucks, before starting to attack your bud with his tongue.

The sudden spike of pleasure made you moan loudly, your hands darting out to Armand's head holding on to his curls for dear life.

"S-Shit."

You started grinding your hips against his face, trying to keep up with his movements but his tongue was playing with your clit in such a fast paced rhythm, you couldn't even hope to match. Armand was silently telling you to just let go and take what he was giving to you.

He pushed back your legs even more, your knees making contact with your shoulders as you felt his mouth moving lower. The second his tongue breached your entrance, you threw your head back against the back of the couch, mouth opening with no sound coming out.

Armand was fucking you with his tongue. There was no other way to describe it. You weren't even sure he was breathing, and yet your hands still tried to pull him even closer.

Your breathing was getting erratic, punched out of your lungs with every stroke of his tongue inside you. Your climax was coming too soon and too fast.

Armand freed his right hand shifting his left arm in a way that allowed him to keep both your legs in position with a single limb.

You knew what was coming, but there was no way for you to prepare yourself. You could only stay where you were and take it.

Two of his fingers replaced his tongue inside you, as he moved his mouth back up to your clit. Armand kept the same fast pace, the wet squelch of the rough fingering you were receiving echoing in the room alongside your moans. He was hitting the same specific spot over and over again, sparks of electricity lighting up your nerves from the inside.

Armand gave your clit a long and hard suck, and when you felt his teeth graze against it delicately, you were tipped over the edge. You let out a loud scream, arching your body on the couch as much as the position you were in could allow.

Your mind blacked out for a few seconds, and when you came to, your legs were resting relaxed on the cushions of the sofa with Armand leaving a trail of wet kisses from your belly up to your chest.

"Are you okay, my love?" He asked, finally raising his head to meet your eyes.

"More than okay."

"Good."

In a quick movement Armand stood up from his kneeling position taking you with him. You tried to hold on to him, but your grip was weak with your body still shaking from the aftermath of your orgasm.

Armand put you down gently on the bed, giving you a quick kiss on your forehead before he started undressing. A stark contrast to the filth he committed with it between your legs.

"On your knees, my love. Hands on the headboard."

Your breath hitched in your throat at his command, but you followed through without a single complain. You positioned yourself in the way that was most comfortable to you, as Armand finished taking off his clothes behind you.

A shiver of anticipation traveled along your body from head to toe, reaching its final stop at your core. You waited patiently without turning around, and when you felt the bed dip under Armand's weight, your breath and heartbeat picked up again.

You jumped slightly the moment his arms circled around your torso, his hands coming to rest softly on your chest.

"Is this position comfortable, my love?"

"Yes."

His hands moved back down your sides, a quick squeeze of your waist signaling you to arch your back a bit more. Again, you did as he asked.

He continued his journey down, fingers caressing your entrance with delicate strokes, making you tremble.

"Do you need me to stretch you out more?"

"No," you managed to answer. Your voice no louder than a whisper.

Armand entered you in a single slide, your muscles opening for him without any resistance. You squeezed the headboard as the wave of pleasure hit you all at once.

Armand held you with one of his arms wrapped around your waist, while the other joined yours on the headboard. If before the rhythm was fast paced, now Armand opted for long and slow strokes that didn't leave a single nerve ending untouched, making you crumble weakly under his body.

"You always feel so good, my love," Armand breathed against your ear. "You were made for me."

Armand picked up the pace, your hips shooting back to match his rhythm. With how sensitive you were after the first orgasm, it wouldn't take long for you to come again.

"I'm close."

"I know. You're squeezing so beautifully around me." The hand on the headboard shifted on top of yours, giving you comfort as you prepared yourself for your second climax. "Let go."

With two more precise thrusts, you were gone. Your arms gave in at the intensity of the pleasure, but Armand's arms never allowed you to fall down against the bed, holding you up until you came down from the peak.

You found yourself on your back with Armand on top of you the next second. His eyes staring down at you to dissect how you were feeling.

"Ready for a third?"

You let out a quiet laugh. "I don't think my body can, actually."

Armand hummed in thought. "I'll show you. If it gets to intense, you use your safe word, do you understand?"

"Yes."

His hands lifted your hips from the mattress, as he entered you again in a smooth thrust. Armand set a brutal pace from the start, now chasing his own end as well.

The position was hitting your g-spot repeatedly, giving you little shocks with every movement. Your moans turned into whines, your body complete jelly in his hands.

You didn't think it was possible but pleasure was spiking again in your core, spreading quickly along your limbs. Your hands were squeezing the sheets in an attempt to ground yourself, as your mind threatened to disconnect completely from the moment.

"Armand, Armand…"

"I'm here. I got you, little one"

He was reaching his limit, the strain in his voice a clear indicator, but he was holding back until he fulfilled his promise.

His thumb came down to stroke at your clit, a single touch enough to send you over the edge a third and last time. Your muscles seized at the pleasure running in your body, it was so strong that it took away all the energy you had left to scream.

You distantly heard a loud groan coming from above you, Armand reaching his climax as you felt him filling you up with his release.

It took you a few minutes to fully regain your full mental capacity, your eyes opening slowly and with great effort. You were completely spent.

Armand was still lying on top of you, his length getting soft inside you but he didn't seem willing to move even an inch away from your body.

"You did amazing, my love," Armand said softly against your cheek.

"I didn't do anything."

"You took everything I gave you, and you did it splendidly."

If you had any energy left in you, you would have blushed at his words.

Maybe you weren't too much, after all. You were made enough for Armand to come into your life and make you feel finally complete.

---

I hope you liked it, darlings! If so, let me know Xx

False cheer and a mindless smile can only be worn for so long as armor before the cracks show. And your cracks are chasms of despair that you have to climb your way out of every time Lestat’s eyes find yours during shared hunts.

The blood tastes like poison. It sustains you. Each night you wake in your coffin starving for it; but to actually choke it down is torment. Blood is not just the taste of metal, or phantom flavors of food your fledgling body can no longer tolerate. Blood holds memory. It holds feeling. A thousand snapshots of an entire life seeping into your body, one gulp at a time.

Lestat’s prey of choice is the other predators that go bump in the night. Monsters wandering the edges of society, looking for prey themselves. And when those monsters set their sights on you, their mouths water. The things they want to do—intend to do, because they think you helpless and for the taking are sickening. To them, you are a waiting receptacle for violence that had so far escaped its fate.

You’re losing track of how many nights you’ve spent on hand and knee trying to force the rancid blood from your stomach. Hoping expelling it will expel the last fantasies of the beasts you’ve eaten: so depraved that they spent their last precious moments of consciousness on grand imaginings of defiling another living creature. It’s beyond reason. Beyond sanity. Vampirism has put a knife in your hands that you’ve used to cut across the soft stomach of humanity, and what’s come spilling out instead of innards and organs is all the world’s evil.

You’re a broken thing after every kill, and finally it becomes survival of the soul against survival of the body. You stop eating. What other choice is there? There’s a madness clinging to the edges of your mind, encroaching upon your every thought. What would the sun feel like? Or fire? Better than this, surely. Anything better than this.

But you continue to go out each night. Even as movement becomes pain, and your skin takes on the sallow coloring of the truly dead. If you don’t keep up the farce of hunting, it will be war with Lestat. Your battered heart couldn’t survive a harsh breeze, much less a cruel word.

The levee breaks despite all the sandbags you’ve piled at its feet, because no disaster can be held back forever.

Lestat has followed you on this night where you stumbled from the house like a drunkard, delirious from hunger poorly hidden, lying for the umpteenth time in a row that you’d discovered a taste for hunting alone. You sat on a park bench for hours. Unmoving. Eyes closed. When dawn was only an hour or two away, you finally drew yourself up, and with trembling legs dragged yourself home.

An ambush was your welcome.

“This is how you honor the dark gift I have given you? By starving yourself?! Lie after lie, and how boldly you told them.”

“I’m not trying to starve myself. I just don’t--“

“Don’t what?” This is too much for Lestat. Too much for his heart to take. One failed fledgling after another. Refusing the gift. Refusing him.

Tears well up, even as you fight them back. When they fall, they cut bloody lines down your cheeks. Carelessly exposing your pain to the world. “I hate tasting it on them. All that…that hate and violence and evil. I don’t feel like some dangerous predator when I can taste the things these fucking animals wanted to do to me in their blood. I feel like prey, Lestat. And I can’t escape the feeling when their fucking taste is still hanging in my mouth, okay?!” Your voice hits a fever pitch, becoming a tattered and broken yell.

Saying the words finally does not bring relief. This is not sitting in a church confessional and telling your pastor how you have sinned, so that he can forgive you, and you can go about your day blameless and clean afterwards. To speak these words to Lestat, who has gone on endless tirades concerning ungrateful and disappointing fledglings of eras long past, is to tell him he has made another mistake. Chose the wrong one again. Sunk his fangs into something weak, with a sullen disposition to match. There will be no forgiveness here.

The naked rage on his face as he stormed into the room, demanding answers—will there be any love left in the wake of your confession? Or, tired of coddling surly newborns of the night, will he abandon you?

Blood tears are harder to see through than ones of water and salt. You’re grateful for that, though. You don’t want to see whatever expression Lestat must be wearing now. Disgust, maybe? Hate? You reach blindly for the lid of your coffin, trying to slam it shut on the world and your maker.

Lestat’s hand catches the lid so harshly it sounds like the bark of a tree being mangled by a car spun off the road. You hear the metal hinges of your coffin break. Try not to flinch when Lestat flings the broken lid back against the wall.

You’re expecting rage. Not his hands cupping your face, forcing you to look at him. “Mon ange…I don’t. I do not understand.”

“It’s like poison. Like picking up arsenic every night and expecting it not to kill me this time. It’s hell, Lestat. Wake up. Drink a murderer. Sleep. Wake up. Drink a rapist. Next day, some pimp. But they all taste the same, like death rotting on my tongue and acid eating at my brain. Knowing everything they wanted to do to me before I ripped their throats out.”

Lestat stares at you for so long you think he may have forgotten he’s capable of speaking more than French or Italian. Stares as if you are some alien creature from an unknown world, and he is parsing out first contact between your species. Terror beats against your chest during every second of silence.

His thumb brushes across your cheek. He opens his mouth, finally—what comes tumbling out is not a cold rebuke for your lack of a killer’s spirit, but a sob.

“I did not… I did not realize what the… prey of desire is always the easiest catch to make when you are so young. And you’ve such a gentle heart I did not think you could bear the killing of an innocent…I did not realize that I was…” Hurting you? Killing you one drop of blood at a time?

Is this his fate? To be so incompetent a maker that he guides every fledgling to death’s door?

Unbidden, a promise he made to Gabrielle more than a century ago springs to mind: Do not taste the fire or welcome the sun until we meet again.

Lestat pulls you from your coffin into the tight circle of his arms and knows this promise may be the only thing stopping him from mimicking the fate of his own maker and throwing himself into the flames.

You were such a joyous fledgling in the first few weeks. Humanity had been your chrysalis, and vampirism was your hatching. You’d drunk of his blood eagerly and deeply. Without coaxing or begging, you’d welcomed the change.

He had soiled it. In trying to prevent the makings of another Nicki or Louis, he had doomed whatever beautiful creature you were becoming.

None of this he could bring himself to say out loud. Terrified you will go from finding fault in yourself to finding fault in him—he cannot bear to say ‘I am sorry’, so that you will know how plainly he’s failed you.

Lestat hunts alone now, and he hunts for two. Engorges himself on the blood like a vicious tick before he crawls home to you, pulling you into his lap and lifting his wrists—pink and warm—to your fangs in offering. A supplicant bringing gifts of worship to his god. Whispering for you to drink all that you need, while he cradles you close and tries not to weep.

It reminds him of being a pauper lord hunting for rabbits and scrawny birds in the woods, trying to keep his family from starving.

You can hardly bring yourself to look at a violent human. To expect you to tolerate the sickness in their blood any longer is a cruelty even Lestat is not capable of. And he won’t force you to feed on fucking goats and vermin because he guided you so woefully.

He kills only the ilk that turned your stomach and dimmed the light behind your eyes. The deaths are masterpieces of brutality—as if he can make up for what he’s done through petty vengeance. Imagine he hadn’t tainted you with their darkness. Imagine he did this from the beginning. Imagine you’ve only ever tasted love, and devotion, and tenderness from the start; let’s just pretend for a little while, mon ange.

He just hopes all his love and regret is sweet enough that blood stops tasting like a punishment soon.

ARMAND:

This will be the most dangerous moment of your relationship with the ancient vampire. He prides himself on his singular understanding of your inner world. What you are. Who you are. These are things Armand believed himself to understand above all else—and in the face of such a catastrophic miscalculation of the conditions you would thrive under, he thinks it might be a mercy to kill you both.

The first few months of the change are crucial. A talent all coven masters develop is the ability to take one look at a vampire and know if they could survive the eternal dredge and misery that lay in wait for them on the long road of immortality. He had deliberated on giving you the dark gift for years; and had only broken when the thought of living without you outweighed the fear—no, the reality—that all fledglings grow to resent their maker.

Would you not have all the right in the world to hate him now? How careless he had been with you. His salvation. It was a wicked thing to have stolen you away from the promise of heaven your tender soul would have known at the end of your days, had he allowed them to end naturally. But he had damned you and then neglected to care for you properly.

It was one thing to give up your soul for the potential of a few thousand years. But with your heart so heavily marred by the darkness he’d allowed to fester right beneath his nose, you might only bring yourself to live for a measly hundred years.

Armand wonders if you will even make it to an even hundred now, as you weep tears of blood into his lap.

If he hadn’t changed you, he would have been capable of reading your mind. Might have averted the disaster you now find yourselves in. But he had changed you selfishly. Wanted only his blood flowing through your veins once he had decided you were to join the League of the Undead. He should have gone to Lestat or Louis on bended knee, begging them to give you the gift, so that he could forever look into your precious mind and be capable of preserving its once pristine joy.

You had been so happy when he asked you to be his eternal companion.

He runs a gentle claw over your scalp and thinks about how easy a thing it would be to end this torment before it has truly begun for you. If Armand can only bring himself to perform one act of selflessness, you will never have to experience a hundred, three hundred, seven hundred years of a suffering he couldn’t have possibly conceived for you... and he will not have to bare a hundred, three hundred, seven hundred years of guilt and agony over things he cannot possibly protect you from.

The blood you can bring yourself to hunt for holds nothing but rot and ruin for you.

He cannot protect you from the blood. From nourishment. Your heart is strong enough to kill to survive, but not to withstand the taking in of such vile evil. Even as a vampire, you have retained a powerful semblance of a soul, and it is such a tender one. He could save it now, even after the rot of the dark gift—if only he were strong enough.

But Armand has never been one for bravery or selflessness.

He steels himself against the uncertain path ahead and moves to kiss away your tears. Your blood is sweet on his tongue.

Every night he wonders if he’s created his own doomed and beautiful Nicki. Wonders if this is divine punishment, and if it is, how can he beg a God indifferent to a vampire’s prayers to punish him, only him, and not his beloved; but so few of Armand’s prayers have ever been answered he knows it’s a moot point.

He prays regardless.

DANIEL:

Daniel would catch the warning signs early. You can only hear so many tales gone wrong from the Ghosts-of-Vampires-Long-Past explaining how they all fucked it royally (and uniquely) with each of their fledglings before paranoia sinks in. He doesn’t have to make the mistakes to avoid them. He knows the playbook.

It’s a blessing to learn from the mistakes of the idiots who’ve come before him.

Daniel’s isn’t a perfect maker. He’s little more than a fledgling himself when he turns you. But what he doesn’t have in experience he makes up for with spades of: we’re in this together and I’m never gonna leave you to figure it out alone.

Still, his mouth has always and will always be what gets him into trouble. Especially in his relationships.

Seeing you standing over your latest kill, face endearingly messy because you still bite at the blood more than you suck it, choking back sobs sends a jolt of terror through his soul. He’s created a Louis of his very own as punishment for tormenting Lestat, and you’re about to try selling him on a diet of bullshit.

What he says out loud is, “Sweetheart… what’s wrong?”

“I just… I dunno, Daniel.”

“You’re making me nervous, babe. What, did the guy taste sour?”

A beat, and then your leg kicks out, sending the still warm corpse flying at the wall hard enough to dent the plaster. “He tasted like a fucking monster who was thinking of hurting me until the moment his heart stopped beating and I wish I could fucking throw up to get the taste out of my mouth of rapist pig.”

Daniel takes in the anger on your face. Wishes he could revive the mangled dead guy in the corner just to kill him again for putting such a heartbreaking look of helplessness on your face. “Why’d you keep drinking him?!”

"…Excuse me?" You ask, coldly.

“No, wait, not like... I mean... Christ, isn’t this your fourth rotten bastard like this?”

“Yeah.” You sniffle, looking like you want to spit up blood your body just can’t spare as one of the newly dead.

Daniel takes a step forward, wiping your face clean with his sleeve, licking away what doesn’t come straight off—waste not, want not. “Baby, if drinking the scum of the earth makes you want to cry instead of enjoying your food, I’d kick open a church and kill a room full of nuns for you so you can taste something sweet. Why don’t we find you something nice to wash that taste out, alright?”

Your eyes go wide, the same color as his. They look better on you. “What the hell happened to killing people who are evil so we can live with ourselves after a few hundred years?”

“I can live with anything just fine, as long as you’re happy, and I’ll teach you how to live with it too if that’s what you need me to do.” He leans over and kisses you on the lips, careless and easy, because he won’t let this turn into centuries of misery for either of you.

He glances across the room and focuses on the unlucky meal that has ruined your night, letting his anger spark until the body itself catches fire.

Daniel was born with a splinter of coldness. Born to be a vampire. And you were born to be his matching set. He won’t let anything stand in the way of the two of you and a supernaturally long, happy life—certainly not a few lousy leftovers of human morality.

LOUIS:

Louis is a fine-tuned machine when it comes to taking notice of the early sproutings of all forms of vampiric misery.

You would not taste the blood of the man who's mind promised threats of horrific violence if only he could escape your grasp. Louis would see the look on your face, catch the trembling of your hands as you brought the man closer and closer to your fangs.

Stalling for time. Not playing with your food. Disgusted by it.

Louis' hands find your waist, painfully gentle, jolting you back to the present and away from the dark void of this man who should already be dead and drained. "There's no shame if we need to start with animals."

The words are free of judgement. His tone is painstakingly soothing—anticipating the first of many panicked breakdowns to come. Only logical, considering you were his fledgling, for him to assume you had taken after him on initial dietary woes and melancholy. But he’d walked through the worst of those fires and felt grateful for all the misery of his past now that it might help him guide a creature so deserving of enlightened and kind mentoring.

Your hands are shaking where they’re wrapped around the man’s collar. There’s a hatred in his eyes that turns your stomach. Your mouth is watering from hunger. You can taste the blood pulsing beneath the thin barrier of protection that is a human being’s skin.

But Louis has told you fresh blood holds memory, sensation. It is not like the deadened blood from the bags he’s tenderly been pouring into mugs and bowls, as if that will somehow turn the blood to tea and soups, and keep you human a little longer.

You do not want to experience the blood of the beast writhing at your feet.

“Sweetheart? There’s no shame if you can’t do it yet. We have an eternity to get to this part.”

“It’s not that.” You shake your head sharply, starving and angry. You have a perfectly good meal in front of you that you know will make you sick if you bite it.

You feel like a plucky young hero in some old fairytale, having wandered across a tempting feast laid out in the woods. Clever enough to know the food is cursed, you still want to bite into it, consequences be damned.

“I don’t think I want to taste what this guy is thinking about me.” You hiss, tossing him away from yourself in disgust. You don’t quite know your own strength yet. His arm breaks when you throw him down. A week ago, before you could read minds, the sound would have made you sick. Now, you’re only tempted to pick him up again and break the other one.

You don’t get the chance. Louis had been so focused on you, eyes and ears tuned to the channel of your every hitched breath and micro expression he hadn’t bothered turning his mind to the thoughts of your first vampiric meal proper. But once he does, he’s glad he gagged the man before dragging him in here to you. He’d only done it so that if the man screamed, as so many do, it would not frighten you.

The man’s thoughts, vile and vivid, make it clear he should have been gagged for another reason. Louis reaches over and snaps his neck before he can poison your mind with anymore of his painfully human evil.

Warm hands cup your face as he steps between you and the body. It’s as sweet a gesture as it is ridiculous. Protecting a vampire from the sight of a body that deserved a far more painful death.

“I’m sorry you had to hear that, honey.” He says fiercely, dragging your face to his and kissing over your cheeks and temple, like he can kiss away everything wicked about the world.

“It’s alright, Louis.”

“No, it isn’t, and you don’t need to pretend it is. Not for me. And you will never have to do anything you don’t want to do. You don’t have to worry about disappointing me or putting on a brave face—none of that. My job is to take care of you. That’s the most important thing in the world to me. It’s the only thing, actually, alright?”

You let yourself lean into the earnest, almost desperate affection of your maker and nod.

“Why don’t we get you a few blood bags warmed up, and we’ll find you a better meal tomorrow. Something more pliant for your first time.”

Louis leads you out of the dining room, away from the dead body cooling on the rug, the way you might step around a dead rat on the street.

He’ll clean up once you’ve gone to bed. There’ll be plenty of years for you to learn how to do that too. For now, he will give you all the grace and patience he was denied in a maker, and hope it lays the groundwork for a happier vampiric temperament.

A/N: i hope this story is as coherent as i think it is considering i was still very much recovering from the week of big health scares while writing it. please enjoy <3

if you enjoyed these headcanons consider reblogging, leaving a reply, or an anon! a writer’s fuel is engagement. if you really loved this, check out my PATREON: slasherscream, for some exclusive content. this particular story was posted three weeks ago on the patreon, for early access. xoxoxo

It was a nice night.

You and Armand went on a date, as you liked to do when both of you had a few days to spend fully together.

You intruded yourselves in the city Planetarium, talking about the stars and the mythology behind them. You had chosen to wear a short dress that reached the middle of your thighs, and Armand seemed very focused on the way it hugged your curves, his hands slipping below your waist every now and then.

You knew what awaited for you once you got home, a tingle of anticipation already forming in the pit of your stomach. Still, knowing your fate never prepared you for the way your nights were going to unfold every single time, Armand a master of the art of intimacy way beyond anything you had experienced before him.

And now, here you were.

Face down on the mattress, a pillow below your belly to position your hips in a slightly elevated prone bone position, and Armand caging you in above you with his arms on both sides of your head.

You were holding his wrists with your hands, trying to anchor yourself on the bed as Armand's powerful thrusts were threatening to push you up against the headboard every time his hips made contact with your ass.

Your mouth was open, but nothing was coming out of it besides moans, whines and stuttered versions of Armand's name.

"You feel so good, my love," Armand whispered next to your ear, his breath fanning softly against your hair. "Warm. Soft. And utterly at my mercy."

No spoken words were truer than those. You were at Armand's mercy, and there was no other place you'd have wanted to be right now. But it was getting intense, his thrusts metronomic and precise against your most sensitive spot.

You were feeling overwhelmed, though not enough to resort to use your safe word yet. You tried to squeeze Armand's wrists as a counter reflex but you realized in that moment that their positions were now reversed with Armand holding yours down and pinning you against the mattress.

You couldn't move, your body fully restrained under Armand's and, if with someone else you would have felt panic arise, with him all you were experiencing was a spike in your pleasure as your climax hit you out of nowhere.

No sound came out of your lips, body and soul succumbing to the feeling as tremors took hold of your limbs. You were lying there prisoner to your orgasm, tears streaming down your eyes at the intensity.

"Little one."

You heard Armand utter your name, but he sounded far away, almost muffled as if cotton had started growing in your eardrums.

You tried to take a deep breath to answer him, though only a broken whisper came out instead.

Armand was on you in a second, slowly turning you on your back so he could look at you clearly in your face. His eyes widened at the sight of tears still staining your cheeks. You must not have looked very pretty in that moment.

"My love, can you hear me?"

You nodded, the movement slow and limited by Armand's hands holding your face, his thumbs wiping your tears away with delicate touches.

"Have I hurt you?"

You frowned at him at the question. Was that what he thought had happened?

"I'm fine," you said, your voice still quiet but at least you were starting to fully function again. "I just got overwhelmed suddenly."

"You should have stopped me if it was getting too intense." Armand kissed your forehead, his shoulders finally relaxing once he realized you were unharmed.

"It wasn't a bad sensation, only unexpected. I enjoyed it."

Armand leaned back to look at you in your eyes, surely searching for any signs of discomfort he feared you were hiding from him. There were none, of course.

"What do you need, my love? A warm bath? Something to drink?"

"Can you hold me for a while, please? I need to feel you."

A warm smile started to grow on his face and, after leaving another small kiss on your face, he moved to lie down on the bed taking you with him.

You rested your head on his chest, your left leg coming up to circle his waist to fully press your body against his. His hands were moving on your skin, one slowly down your spine and the other on your thigh, as his nails tickled you in their passage.

"You're still shaking," Armand mumbled lowly against your hair. "I apologise for not realizing your situation sooner."

"You did nothing wrong. I didn't want you to stop."

Armand stayed quiet for a few seconds, his hands never stopping once in their movements. The soft feeling was making your eyelids heavier and you weren’t sure you'd be able to resist the pull of sleep if he continued, but there was something you wanted to say.

"I hope I didn’t disappoint you. I feel like I ruined the moment with the way I reacted."

Armand stilled immediately, and you mentally cursed yourself for making the situation even worse.

"Look at me." You didn't move. "Now."

You raised a little from your position on his chest, your eyes shy as they finally met his gaze. The way he was looking at you was firm, but you could still perceive the softness underneath.

"Never say anything of the sort again," Armand uttered, his hands cradling your face preventing you from even attempting to divert your gaze. "Every action you do, or any emotion you feel, is never wrong to me, and this is how it will always be."

Fuck.

You were going to cry.

The emotional turmoil of the last hour catching up to you with a final blow, and the new tears dripping down your face were its final release.

You hid in the crook of Armand's neck, your arms circling around him as much as you could.

"That's good, my love," Armand whispered, his hold tightening to provide all the comfort you needed. "Let go."

You didn't know how long you stayed in that position, with Armand taking care of you with light caresses and soft words.

It was the perfect ending to a splendid night as many were and many will be. And despite the emotional rollercoaster you went through, you wouldn't want to change a single second of it.

---

Life wasn't easy. It has never been easy for you, the disowned daughter of a prestigious family that didn't obey their orders and refused to marry someone she didn't know. A man at least twice your age.

The war only made everything worse for you.

When you fled home you took as many of your valuable possessions you could carry with you, to have something to sell that could allow you to start anew in another city. Paris was big enough for you to hide and cover your tracks, so it was the safest option.

You had managed to find a two-room apartment, way below the standards you were raised in, but you didn't mind. You would have lived in the sewers, if it had granted you the freedom you desired.

After the first few months of struggling with your new life, trying to understand how you could survive on your own once the money you had gained from selling your belongings ran out, you found a sort of balance. You got close to your neighbours and offered your skills in mending and designing clothes to start earning and create a small turnover — you had mentally thanked your family for indulging your passion for fashion, providing the education you had wished for.

It took you more than a year of small labour to finally buy a little shop two roads away from your small apartment. Your prices were low as people could not afford to buy that many clothes during the war, and repairing the ones they already had, cost them even less.

Still, despite how bleak the world had turned out to be, having something to occupy your days helped you keep your head and mind above water. Sometimes you barely left your shop, working at night providing a sense of comfort and calmness around you that quieted your inner turmoils. You often went back to your apartment when dawn was starting breaking in the sky.

It was during one of those nights that someone entered your shop way past midnight, probably attracted by the light still on reflecting on the curb outside in the street.

"I'm closed at the moment," you said at the man in front of you, your hand slowly going under your desk to get the knife you always hid there out of safety. You never had to use it before.

"Yet your door was open and you're still here. Working."

The stranger had a nice voice, smooth as velvet and way lighter on the consonants than any person you'd encountered before. He sounded melodious.

"There's no one around at night in these streets, especially not out to buy clothes."

The man was standing in the middle of the room, eyes on you with a colour so unnatural you wondered if it was simply a trick of the lights.

"And yet here I am."

You tilted your head to the side. "You want me to believe you're not here to rob me or attack me, but you're interested in my services?"

The man stepped closer to the counter, the only piece of furniture standing between you. "You don't seem very scared for someone who believes I'm here to commit a felony."

"I accepted the fact that if anyone were to come here at night was to harm me, and I couldn't really stand a chance," you replied, shrugging your shoulders slightly.

"Fascinating."

"Not really." He was still staring at you, those unblinking eyes fixed in yours. "So, are you actually here for my clothes?"

A slow blink.

"I have a theatre company down in Pigalle. Some of our stage costumes are quite old and we need replacements, would you be willing to design them for us?"

This time it was your turn to stare. A part of your brain was telling you you should be scared of the man in front of you, yet no fight or flight instinct was kicking in.

"I can do it. Have you set a budget?"

"Money is not a problem," the man said with a slow movement of his hand. So elegant. "I'll have someone deliver our necessities tomorrow night."

He turned around swiftly, moving towards the door as a way to tell the conversation was over.

"Wait," you blurted out quickly. "Can I at least know your name?"

"Armand."

In a blink he was out the door and out of sight.

---

That became your new life in the following months. Someone from the Théâtre des Vampires would come once every week with new requests or to mend a few costumes. Usually, it was Celeste or Estelle, but sometimes Santiago appeared. The girls were nice and they stayed long enough to keep you company till late in the evening. Santiago, on the other hand, always looked at you as if he wanted to eat you. And not in a nice way.

Armand never showed up again.

Estelle had told you he was their maître, so you imagined he must have been too busy with their plays to bother to come. You didn't mind, you were just curious to see him once more.

That's why it took you by surprise when you saw him enter your shop one winter night, almost six months after the first time.

"Good evening, monsieur."

"Good evening, mademoiselle."

The side of your mouth twitched into a small smile. "How do you know I'm not married?"

Armand stepped towards one of the shelves where all the new fabrics were on display, his eyes scanning them carefully. "We have made some progress in the last century, yet a married woman still wouldn't be as free as you are."

"I see," you commented, placing down the dress you were busy sewing before Armand came in. "And does this bother you?"

"Not at all," he replied, firmly, his attention still on the fabrics. "Having a common man try to tame you would have been the worst outcome for you. Your pretty head always so luminous would have dimmed in less than a year in marriage."

A quiet gasp left your lips at his words, stunning you into silence. How could he know about this?

"Why are you here tonight?" you asked, your voice surprisingly stable given how you were actually feeling.

Armand finally turned to look at you, his amber eyes like a beam in the night. They were truly unnatural, no trick of the light as you initially thought.

"In a couple of weeks we'll have the première of our new show, I would like a new suit fit for the evening. I want your impeccable taste to dress me."

His request almost surprised you more than his previous words. You weren't expecting him to come to you with a commission.

"It would be my pleasure," you said, picking a sheet of paper from one of the drawers below the desk. "You can write down your measurements. Have you chosen a fabric?"

Armand turned back towards the shelves, his hand caressing a specific piece. "I'd like to have it in this colour."

You left your spot behind the counter to reach him and see clearly his fabric of choice. You were standing less than two feet from him, his scent tickling your nose but you couldn't point out the fragrance. Tobacco and something spicy.

"That's mummy-brown. My favourite shade of this colour." You looked at him, your eyes scanning his figure. "It would go very well with your complexion."

Armand was staring you down. From up close he was even taller than you thought, you only reached his shoulders.

"I trust your judgement," he said, his attention fully on your face. "But I'd like you to take my measurements. I want the suit perfectly tailored, and previous dressmakers didn't have your eye."

You blinked quickly, taken completely off-guard. "Yes, of course. We can do it now, if you have time."

"All the time you need."

"Follow me, then."

You took him to the back of your shop, where you had mirrors and a stand for clients to step on to make the job easier for you. Armand positioned himself without requiring any instruction from you.

"Would you mind taking off your jacket? I need to see your arms and back to measure you correctly."

Armand did as you asked, placing the jacket carefully on the bench next to him. You barely followed his movements as your eyes were fixed on his upper body.

"Is something the matter?"

You head jerked automatically back towards his face at his question. "No, it's alright. I was just expecting your body to be leaner. I thought you had less muscular mass."

"Have you imagined my body often?"

You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from reacting, willing your face to keep the blush at bay. "That's not what I meant. It's my professional instinct that kicks in when I look at a person, to see what might look best on them."

"Any suggestions for me?" Armand asked, a little smirk forming on his face.

"You don't need it. From what I've seen you're very aware of your commanding presence and you dress accordingly to your status."

"You're being generous."

"I'm being honest. It's your choice to believe me or not."

Without further ado, you got into work starting from his legs, each time scribbling down the measurements on the sheet you had brought with you. The position was a bit awkward when you stopped to think about it. You were on your knees, while Armand's looming and even taller figure was towering over you. You could feel the weight of his power pressing on your shoulders but, surprisingly, that only seemed to trigger a sense of thrill in the pit of your stomach.

Once you were done with his legs, you stood back up to your feet, raising your head to look at Armand, who had been awfully quiet and still during the whole process.

"Do you mind stepping down, so I can take your place?" you asked in your best professional voice. "I need to measure your bust, arms and shoulders, and I'm going to struggle from down here."

"Of course," Armand replied immediately, following your request.

You lifted your leg on the stand as you moved to take his previous position, when you felt Armand's hand on the small of your back help you with the movement. His other followed right afterwards, resting softly on your waist to prevent your body from losing its balance.

"Thank you," you murmured awkwardly. "But I could manage on my own."

Armand's lips quirked a bit in the corner, but didn't comment anything further.

You were the same height now, and close enough for you to fully let his scent invade your senses. It was a unique fragrance, and you could not deny how affected you were by inhaling it inside you. In addition to that, his eyes were mere inches from yours in this position and you noticed for the first time, despite the peculiar colour that no human could possess, how warm they felt when they made contact with yours.

"Is there something wrong with my face?"

His voice brought you back to reality. You diverted your gaze, blinking quickly to get your focus back completely. You fidgeted with the tape measure a couple of times before continuing with the task at hand. Thankfully, Armand's stillness was helpful, your mind now set again on getting all the required measurements you would need for his suit, but you were aware his attention never strayed away from you for a second, so intense it actually felt like a touch on your skin.

"All done," you said, as you removed the tape from the front of his shoulders. You raised your head instinctively to look at him, a loud gasp leaving your mouth at his proximity.

You could feel his breath on your cheek, certain that Armand could feel yours as well.

None of you moved for a few seconds, bodies frozen in the moment as you simply stood there staring at each other. You were the first to step away, jumping down quickly from the stand so you could grab your sheet again and write down the last measurements.

"I'll have your suit ready in a week, is that okay with you?" you asked, giving Armand your back. You didn't know what had just happened, but you couldn't bring yourself to look at him for the time being.

"Yes."

"Do you need anything else?"

"I'd like to invite you to the première of the show, if you're interested in coming to see it."

You stopped writing on the paper at his words, still keeping your back turned. What were you supposed to say? Would it be awkward for you to attend? Santiago tried to convince you a few times, but you always used your work as a fair way to refuse. But it was Armand asking you now, and somehow all the nerves in your body were compelling you to say yes.

You willed your body to turn back around, feeling brave enough to make eye-contact again. "I'd love to."

The words were out in the air now, and you knew Armand wouldn't allow you to take them back. Luckily for you, you had no intention to.

---

The day of the première you spent an awful amount of time in front of your wardrobe to choose an appropriate dress. When you used to go to the opera with your parents, you had always worn your most expensive gown as the occasion was also meant to show off your family's wealth.

You didn't know what kind of show you were about to see, but you had a feeling you should go with a more sober outfit, though still elegant enough to look good. You opted for a cinnamon brown A-line skirt with three red ochre buttons at the top that matched with the silk shirt you had in the same shade of colour.

You decided not to wear any tights underneath. It was a cold night, but you loathed the feeling of their texture on your skin. Your winter coat would be enough to keep your body warm.

You looked at yourself one last time in the mirror and, when you felt quite satisfied with the result, you put on your Victorian boots and left your apartment.

Your walk towards Pigalle was quicker than you thought, the cold air forcing you to speed up your steps as your heels clicked loudly on the cobbled streets. A small crowd was gathered outside the entrance, moving slowly inside the theatre.

Your assigned seat was in the fourth row right in front of the stage and, as you waited for the show to start, you looked around the place to commit it to memory.

It was smaller than the theatres you used to attend and less opulent, which you took as a good sign. It was very dim lit though, the dark walls casting a shadow on all the audience. As you studied the upper levels on your right, your gaze stopped at the figure standing against the wooden banister taking in the scenery below.

Armand.

His attention shifted towards you in a second, giving you a small nod as a welcome that you returned with a small smile. It was interesting to see him in his element, as it had been the other way around until now.

When the few lights around the stalls were switched off, you diverted your gaze. The show was about to start.

You didn't know what you were expecting to see, the poster outside not giving much away, but surely not small plays all circling around death. And all brutally executed.

You resisted the temptation to look up at Armand in judgement, as you weren't getting the reasoning behind such macabre choices, though you were sure it was clearly showing on your face.

Everything changed with the last scene. You frowned as a young girl came running on stage screaming. Normally you would say she was truly giving all of herself in the act, but deep down you knew she wasn't performing.

The girl was really frightened.

You leaned forward slightly, your eyes moving around on stage before settling on Santiago busy bewitching the audience with his monologue. That's when it happened. You saw two fangs shining in his mouth a second before they came down to bite violently on the girl's neck.

This wasn't a play. It was real. You didn't have any proof of that, but your brain had already decided that was the only possible truth.

As the girl supposedly fainted in Santiago's arms, you finally turned to look at Armand. You found his eyes already on you as if he was waiting for your reaction. It made sense now why everybody in the company had eyes so unnatural, because they were.

Because they were all vampires.

You stood up from your seat quickly, almost running out of the theatre. It wasn't out of fear that you were leaving before the play ended, that was what was scaring you the most.

The scene you had witnessed excited you. The idea that you'd been interacting with creatures that could have ended your life in a blink sent shivers of exhilaration down your spine. The fact that you had been alone with Armand, his face close enough to bite your neck if wanted to — but didn't — was awakening something deep in your core you had never had a taste of before.

You realized your body was taking you to your shop. It was closer to the theatre, and it was your shelter in a way that your apartment could never be. You needed to be in a safe territory, because you knew even without seeing him or hearing him that Armand was following you.

You entered the shop slamming the door behind you without stopping to see if it would actually close or not. You didn't turn on the lights in the main room, opting to wait in the back where you had taken Armand's measurements a fortnight before.

You switched on the two lamps you had in the corners of the room to have a clear enough view of your surroundings. You had hoped to have enough time before his arrival, so that you could slow down your breath and heartbeat, but you weren't so lucky.

The steps were light but you managed to hear them anyway. Or better, Armand wanted you to hear them. Still you were not prepared at the effect the sight had on you, the moment he stepped out of the dark. His grim shadow projected on the walls behind him thanks to the light of the lamps.

"You know the truth."

"Yes."

Your voice was barely above a whisper, and still ragged.

"You're scared."

"No."

Armand tilted his head to the side, amber eyes blaring even brighter than usual. "Prove it."

You went to him, your body not hesitating once as you sidestepped the stand in the middle of the room to reach him. You stopped right in front of Armand, your gaze meeting his as they seemed to be compelled to do each time you were to share the same space.

"Look into my eyes, Armand. Do you see fear?"

You made it sound like a challenge. It was probably a stupid move, a move someone would do if they didn't have a single regard for their own life.

Still, Armand did as you asked. He was scanning your face for an answer, so profoundly you could almost feel him inside your head. Maybe he was.

The silence stretched, your breathing starting to pick up again in anticipation. You could feel your fingers twitch next your sides as you waited.

Armand was on you before your mind could start to process his approach. His lips crashing against yours in a rough kiss as one of his hands got tangled in your hair, while the other went to the small of your back to press your body closer to his.

You followed out of instincts rather than experience, taking a hold of his face and shoulder. His tongue slipped in your mouth the second you parted your lips to breathe. He was devouring you in a way you should have expected from a vampire, and you were struggling to match his rhythm.

Armand broke the contact first. His eyes searching for yours while he pushed your body backwards, placing his hands on your hips to direct you. You back met the table you had against the wall before he lifted you to sit on it with frightening ease.

"You never say or act the way I expect you to. It's maddening how you can disrupt my balance by simply existing."

You were so disoriented by the whole situation you weren't sure if he was giving you a compliment or insulting you.

"Are you going to kill me?"

Armand let out a breathy laugh, the air touching the skin of your face softly. "Do you think I would be standing here between your legs if I wanted to kill you?"

"I don't know. It seems fitting for your kind to seduce your preys before you eat them, makes the hunt more palatable."

"Such a brilliant mind you have."

You gasped the moment you felt Armand's hand touch your leg, caressing the skin behind your knee before moving higher toward your thigh, your skirt rising to welcome him. You knew where he was going and yet you didn't how to prepare yourself at the contact.

Your legs opened wider on their own accord, showing Armand how willing your body was to have him touch you. When Armand reached your centre, he simply let his palm rest against it, his hand covering all of your core.

You were wet. He could feel it through the fabric of your underwear, still you kept still. You let your back relax against the wall behind as you waited for his next move.

Armand moved your underwear to the side, two of his fingers coming up to your clit applying pressure with fast and firm circles. You moaned loudly at the action, more intense than the way it felt when you touched yourself alone in your bed deep into the night.

His rhythm never faltered, each precise flick on your clit eliciting a reaction out of you. A light jolt of your legs, a sweet whimper from your lips.

Without warning, Armand entered you with one of his fingers, the sensation so overwhelming in its suddenness that your back bowed into an arch as if on command.

You could feel your muscles stretch as Armand pressed it to the hilt, his palm making contact with your clit again. He stayed there, giving no sign he had any intention to start moving.

You opened your eyes that you didn't even realise you had closed, and looked at him. As expected, Armand was already staring at you, expression unreadable.

"You've never lain with a man."

It wasn't a question. He knew based on a single finger inside you.

"That's true."

"If you feel pain, you stop me. I'm not interested in hurting you."

You took a deep breath. "And in what are you interested in?"

Armand's eyes darkened as his finger started moving slowly inside you. "Seeing you cry in pleasure."

The tip of his finger curled against a specific spot inside you, the sudden sensation making you open your legs even more. Armand kept attacking the same spot over and over again, as your whimpers started to grow in volume filling the small room.

A second finger joined the first, your walls immediately welcoming the intrusion without any resistance. You could feel your wetness dripping down your skin and on the table below you.

Armand never stopped the sweet torture, only increasing the pace every few seconds. Your breathing was getting more ragged and you couldn't keep your eyes open any longer. The second his thumb started pressing down on clit, giving it quick flicks that matched the pressure of his fingers inside you, you were done for.

Your climax hit like a tidal wave, your whole body trembling in response as your legs locked against Armand's waist. You wanted the feeling to last forever but you wanted to run away from it at the same time. You had fully lost control of your body and mind.

When the intensity slowly decreased, you managed to open your eyes. Armand's gaze already there to provide you comfort, his pupils so large that they were engulfing completely the amber of his irises.

"No tears in your eyes," Armand commented. "Let me rectify that."

You had no time to react — not that your current situation would have allowed you to — as Armand pushed your legs back against your shoulders, your skirt dropping down on your waist exposing your centre fully to the room and to Armand's focused gaze.

"I'll try to be gentle, ma chérie, but my control is hanging by a thin thread," Armand said, voice showing his effort in restraining himself.

"I don't care," you managed to utter. "I want you, Armand."

That was all the permission he needed. In a single, smooth movement of his hips Armand pushed forward. You didn't know when he had pulled his pants down to his thighs, but considering how out of your mind you were during your orgasm, you weren't really surprised you hadn't noticed.

"Armand, fu—"

You didn't get to finish your sentence. The feeling of Armand's length entering you taking all your breath away. You were expecting pain, like in the stories you had heard when you were old enough to understand, but nothing came. Only a crushing feeling of pleasure.

Armand set a brutal pace from the beginning as he saw you get lost in the throes of bliss after the first thrusts.

The table you were sitting on kept bumping against the wall at every snap of Armand's hips against the skin of your thighs. Those were the only sounds in the room, other than your erratic panting and the occasional moan slipping through Armand's lips.

You weren't going to last. Your hands coming up to hold Armand's wrists, while his hands were still gripping the back of your knees keeping you in the same folded position against the table and wall.

The orgasm hit you both at the same time out of nowhere. You let out a scream so loud and raw you struggled to recognise as your own. Armand sinked his nails in your flesh, breaking the skin, a low groan resonating in his chest.

You stayed in the same position for a few minutes, not that you could do much with your body positively drained. Your sight was blurred, wet tears staining your lashes and your cheeks.

"Are you still with me?" Armand asked, lowering delicately your legs back on the table.

You nodded not knowing if you were able to utter a complete sentence.

Armand's hands were moving softly on your skin, trying to stop the tremors in your muscles. "Now that I found you, I think I'm going to keep you."

You blinked slowly up at him, not really registering his words, as you felt your body gradually drifting off.

"Forever."

---

Jack Abbot was normal. He was fine. He was definitely not seething watching you dance with friends. The problem with dating the hottest woman in existence was that he couldn’t exclusively monopolize your time. He barely knew anyone at this wedding, it was your friend’s wedding.

She had too many sisters to have you as a bridesmaid and in the comfort and secrecy of your bedroom you had whispered to him that you just didn’t have it in you to be in so many weddings—most of your twenties had been spent traveling around the country to be in friends’ weddings.

Now, he was watching you in a gorgeous plum dress dancing around barefoot with girls you’ve known for over a decade. Some of their husbands were tolerable. Your best friend and her husband were here. Most of the time Ted was fine. Drunk Ted cared a lot about golf and Jack, drunk or sober, couldn’t give a shit.

When P!nk’s “So What” ended you meandered back over to Jack and to his surprise (and delight), collapsed in his lap.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled. “I’m a little tipsy.”

“So I see,” he replied, lightly pushing your hair back away from your face. Your nice hairdo had long since come unraveled and kept falling in your face.

“I like you so much,” you said leaning into him.

“You don’t love me?” He asked with a smile on his face. You snorted.

“Of course I love you. But I also like you.”

“Thanks?”

“I don’t think all my friends like their husbands,” you whispered a little too wet in his ear. He had to resist the urge to push you away to wipe it off.

“What makes you say that?”

“Take me back to the hotel and I’ll tell you,” you said laying your head on his shoulder. It definitely didn’t look comfortable, largely speaking to your exhaustion. You had been dancing and jumping with your friends for multiple hours.

“C’mon, babe,” he said shifting your legs off his lap.

“Ugh,” you groaned standing again. “I need to tell Claire goodnight.”

“I’ll get our stuff,” he said.

The send off had been a few hours ago, before the elderly relatives had left. Now, it was just a fun party with friends. He loved watching you light up and enjoy being around your people. He loved his people, but they were far more subdued than yours.

Across the dance floor you approached your friend who threw her arms around you with heartfelt but drunken balance and coordination. It made his heart swell, watching how happy you were. Fuck, he loved making you happy. All he wanted in life was to make each day just a little easier; he wanted to do his best to make you happy.

By the time you’d extricated yourself from your friend’s embrace and made your way back to him, Jack had a hold of your purse and coat. He also had already dug your ugly Birkenstocks out of your purse so you didn’t have to put your heels back on.

“Fuck you’re so good to me,” you said, holding onto him while you slipped the shoes on.

“Well if that’s all it takes,” he replied, helping you into your coat.

He kept a hold of your bag when walking out to the parking lot. Just like his mother taught him, he held the door open on the rental car and shut it gently behind you. When he got into the drivers seat, you had dug your water bottle out of your purse.

“Ugh, I’m already sobering up,” you complained.

“So you don’t want drunk fast food?”

You gasped dramatically. “Do you kiss your mother with that dirty mouth?”

Jack laughed and grabbed your hand as he turned out of the parking lot heading back to the hotel.

“What did you mean earlier about your girlfriends not liking their husbands?” He asked pulling into a greasy fast food joint. It rarely mattered which one as the point was disgusting food.

Once the French fries and chicken and burgers had been acquired, Jack pulled into a parking spot towards the back of the lot. One of the first things you both discovered you’d had in common was growing up in small towns. It meant that you both had fond memories of idling car conversations and the occasional makeout. Even now, a long away from your teen years, you both adored your post party ritual.

“So,” you began, curling your legs up. “Abigail, not technically my friend, but she’s a good time. Was talking to me about how glad she was that her husband couldn’t come and that was fucking bonkers to me. Why would you marry someone you don’t like?”

“You would be sad if I couldn’t come?”

“Sure, I like spending time with you. It’s not like it would ruin it for me, I basically barely hung out with you tonight, but it’s fun coming back and kissing you before dancing to Pitbull songs with everyone.”

“I think that’s a compliment,” he laughed.

“But seriously!” You said nudging him. “I like being around you. It’s fun. You’re just as fun as my friends.”

“Even though I can’t dance with the energy of a drunk college girl?”

“Even then,” you laughed. “Hear anything good with the spouses?”

“Ted likes golf,” Jack sighed.

“God he’s so boring,” you laughed. “But she needs boring after the shit head she used to be married to.”

“Do your friends think I’m boring?”

You scoffed. “No, they think you’re a crazy adrenaline junky, not boring. Did you notice the groom’s sister had a fucking weird speech?”

For the next hour you both sat in the car, eating food that would clog your arteries and gossiping about the wedding. It was life giving and comforting in ways you never wanted to lose. You’d had this with friends but Jack was the first man you’d ever dated who wanted to do stupid shit with you. He wanted to go to weddings of people he didn’t know. He wanted to sit in a slightly too heated car talking shit about speeches. He wanted to do nothing and everything with you.

“What’s that look?” Jack asked.

“I dunno,” you sighed. “I just really fucking like you.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I really fucking like you, too,” he said. “Even if you dance like a baby giraffe.”

“Fuck off!”

When you both got back to the hotel, Jack helped you search for the various pins hidden somewhere in your hair.

“You’re so pretty,” he said mouth at your bare shoulder.

“Are you trying to get in my pants, Dr. Abbot?”

“You’re not wearing pants,” he said, bracketing your body against the counter of the bathroom. “You are, however, wearing a gorgeous dress I’ve wanted to peel off with my teeth all night.”

“Your teeth, huh?” You asked making eye contact with him in the mirror.

“God I’ve wanted to touch you so bad all night,” he whispered in your ear, pressing a soft kiss right near your hairline.

“You look so good in that suit,” you grumbled, pushing your ass back against his groin. “Kept coming back to kiss you so everyone knew you were mine.”

Jack’s eyes fluttered closed as he buried his face in your neck. Being wanted by you was intoxicating. Knowing that you coveted him as much as he coveted you was more than enough to turn him on. He could feel the ghost of your cunt clenching around him. It had been two weeks since he last fucked you. Both of your jobs had been hectic.

But now, in the privacy of the too expensive hotel room, he had you at his mercy.

“Look at me baby,” he said softly against your ear, relishing in how you shivered against him. “All mine, right?”

“Only yours,” you breathed. “I’ve missed your hands.”

He ran his hands from your thighs up your dress to cup your tits. The strapless dress was held up by tape and some intricate ties in the back. He pulled the tape off your chest gently and then yanked the fabric down under your tits, bra and all. You looked so good. In the dim light of the bathroom, he drank in your heedy gaze.

“Beautiful,” he said attacking your neck again.

Having you in his bed for so long, meant Jack knew just how to kiss you and play with your chest to make you soaked. It’s like he had a cheat code to turning you on. It helped that most of the night had been subtle foreplay between you both. During dinner his hand was definitely too high on your thigh but he couldn’t bear to move it.

“Fuck, baby, take me to bed. It’s cold as shit in here,” you groaned.

“Anything for you,” he said. “How hard do you want tonight?”

“Rough,” you replied.

He wove his fingers through your hair, close to the roots and pulled. He drug you back into the main room and tossed you on the bed face first. Holding you down with one hand on your upper back, he slowly pulled the zipper of your dress down.

“Look at this sexy body,” he said. “All for me.”

You wiggled a little as he unhooked the strapless bra with one hand. It had taken him nearly a year to master, but it was one of his most used bedroom skills. Letting you go, he pulled off the dress harshly, taking your underwear with it. Then you were face down on the bed, naked and already dripping for him.

You had arched your back, preening under his gaze. With a sharp smack to the meaty part of your glute, he watched you jump and settle back into your skin. A few more spanks and he quickly shoved his fingers inside you making you gasp.

He loved all the noises and movements you made during sex. For the duration of your relationship, he had been making a running catalog of how to get you to do a sound or movement. While he harshly fingered you, enjoying the way you squirmed under him, he began unbuckling his belt and pants.

“Feel good, baby?”

“Fuck me, please,” you panted against the comforter.

Shoving his pants down just low enough let out his dick, he pulled his fingers out of you and rubbed your wetness along his cock. Just the smell of you was sending him over the edge. He made sure to clamp down on your hips tightly, hoping to leave a bruise for you to enjoy, before careening his hips into yours aggressively.

There was a grunt as the air was knocked out of you. For a moment he paused, enjoying how you felt. Your cunt always felt so fucking good against his dick. You were so warm and wet and you clenched so beautifully when he spanked you. As much as he loved to be the one furiously fucking you, he also loved having you in charge.

He always enjoyed feeling your nails rake down his back. He was desperate to feel you closer against his skin, so while he had your hips pinned to the bed, he quickly ripped off his button up and undershirt so he could wrap his arm around your neck and pull you up against his body.

Once he felt you against his chest, he began to thrust ferociously against your cunt. He loved how it fluttered and the grunts and groans you released as he harshly pounded into you.

“Fuck, baby,” Jack growled harshly. “You feel so good. Made for me. Carved for my fucking dick, isn’t that right?”

“Just for you,” you said breathlessly.

You were clutching onto the bicep his had wrapped around your neck (more so your chest than neck, but it had the same effect). He felt you meeting his thrusts sending shockwaves through both of you.

“I love it when you’re rough with me,” you heaved against his assault. “Harder, please.”

Your tone was always so breathy and almost whiny when you got worked up like this.

“Anything for my naughty girl. Do you like this dick pounding into you. Does it feel good to have someone treat you so meanly?”

“Fuuuck,” you groaned arching against his grasp more. “You feel so good inside of me.”

“You make me so fucking crazy, pretty girl,” he hissed against your ear. “Watching you tonight was like my own personal dream. The prettiest girl in the world dancing and jumping but always coming back to me. Can’t be without me can you?”

“No, I can’t,” you whined as one of Jack’s hands roughly kneaded your tits. “Your hands are so good.”

“Rub your clit for me, baby. I want to feel you cum on my dick. I’m going to fuck you so hard you can’t walk tomorrow.”

“Yes please,” you mumbled. He felt one of your hands leave its iron grasp on his arm. “You fill me up so good.”

Jack felt himself getting close so he pulled out and finished taking off his pants. Getting his prosthetic off quickly was a hard fought for skill, but he managed to push you flat on the bed covering your body with his own before slipping back inside of your warmth.

He wrapped his arm around your throat again and grinned at how you moaned wantonly.

“So pretty when you’re being used by me.”

“Please,” you managed.

“Prop your hips up, baby,” he said getting on his knees to allow you room.

The harsh sounds of him slamming into you filled the room while he kept whispering debauched things in your ear:

“You’re made for me and only me.”

“Using you feels so sweet.”

“Are you going to cum on my dick?”

“I’m so fucking deep, baby.”

“I’m going to make you cum so hard.”

He was so focused on making sure you came, he didn’t noticed how you turned your face.

“Please, daddy, harder,” you moaned.

His hips stuttered and to control himself, he bit into the muscle of your shoulder. He almost felt guilty for how hot he found your cry of pain to be.

“Rub your clit and say it again,” he mumbled against your skin.

Your hand snaked underneath your body, and gasping under his assault you said,

“Harder, daddy. I want to feel you cum inside me.”

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned.

He was so close when he felt the tell tale flutters of your cunt against him. He nearly wept with relief you finally were close enough for him to say,

“Cum on my dick, pretty girl. Show me how good I make you feel. Milk me. Milk daddy.”

You cried out as you tensed and gasped underneath him. He made sure to keep moving as you clenched against him until your shaking thighs collapsed. He continued his furious pace until he felt himself orgasm. It felt like he came forever. When he finally collapsed and rolled over next to you, he chest was heaving.

“Daddy, huh?” He asked.

“I don’t know where it came from,” you laughed. “But you clearly liked it.”

“Surprise for me, too,” he huffed. He pulled you against him, reveling in how your naked skin felt against his.

“You’re sweaty and hot,” you grumbled, nuzzling your face against his chest. It was said like a complaint but you weren’t moving away.

“So are you,” he laughed. You tweaked his nipple.

“I’m fresh as a daisy.”

He laughed and kissed the top of your head. “Want to shower first?”

“Yes please,” you said. “Will you keep me company?”

He snorted and nodded.

The accessible bathroom had a removable shower chair that he used while he waited for you. Unlike the shower at home, it wasn’t big enough for Jack, his shower chair, and you. So he watched as you tied your hair up and quickly rinsed off. He noticed your wince when you gently cleaned your vagina.

“Do you want me to check it?” He asked a little concerned.

“Nah, just sensitive. You did a good job.”

“Wow, did I get an A-plus in sex?”

“Fuck off,” you laughed.

While Jack showered, you began working through your nighttime routine. You took off whatever make up hadn’t been sweated off during the wedding or the following sex and washed your face. By the time Jack got out, you were brushing your teeth.

Before leaving the bathroom you kissed him and said, “I love you.”

“Wuv yew,” he said with his toothbrush in his mouth.

Using his crutches, he made his way back to the bed, pulling on a pair of clean boxers before sliding into bed with you. Like you always did, you slept on the side farthest from the door. It was one of the many things that lingered from the war. Jack wanted to be between you and anything unexpected.

He pulled you against him, in the dark, enjoying how warm and soft you were.

“A good night,” he mumbled.

“And good sex,” you said.

He laughed and closed his eyes, feeling so much love and affection for you leaking out of his chest.

“Hey,” you said after a while. “You awake?”

“Hmm?” Jack asked sleepy.

“I just really like you.”

Jack laughed softly. “I really like you, too.”

You kept glancing toward the seashore, maybe this time you’d catch a glimpse of him returning—No. Just the waves, rolling in and out, again and again. You’d been staring out for a while now. The shore was a beautiful sight.. but the brush in your hand wouldn’t move. Paint dripped down to the parchment, untouched. The same paint Telemachus had given you.

The wind felt harsher as it brushed against your face.

Maybe a glass of water can help, though from the way you’ve been staring at the ocean, it practically feels like you're drowning in it.

It had been a few days since Telemachus left Ithaca, and perhaps the constant worry—paired with his absence—was wearing you down.

Without him, everything felt slightly off. The day felt emptier therefore lonely. You felt lonelier.

You missed him. Not just his voice or presence, but the way he looked at you like you were something worth returning to. Something he chose, a memory that warmed your chest and ached all at once

"(Name)?" You turned your attention to see the queen.

"Your Highness, is there something wrong?" You asked gently, surprised. It was rare for Queen Penelope to speak to you directly—usually she calls for your mother when she needed assistance. You straightened your posture instinctively, forcing away the heaviness clinging to your chest. "Have you seen Telemachus around?" She asked heavily.

Her question caused your pressed smile to falter, as the effort to hold it in broke, your breath went quiet as you attempt to dart away. "I'm afraid not, Your Highness." You said almost too quiet. "Not today"

You aren't too sure why the queen was questioning you anyways, As far as you knew, your friendship—or… relationship..with the prince wasn’t something anyone had noticed yet. You weren't really proving yourself as you looked more guilty than a man caught in the act.

Penelope's expression softened, her eyes studied you with care. "You miss him, don't you?" She said, your eyes widen in surprised, lips parting to deny, but you couldn't. How could you lie to a queen—worse, to a mother?

Penelope wore a faint smile as her tired eyes covered yours. "I think it's a mother power to sense it, I noticed the way he looks at you from afar, especially when he think no one is looking." She states. A blush crept its way to your face as you struggled to find the words. "I was once in love too, you know. I notice, every single time."

You weren’t sure if you should be ashamed, embarrassed, or scared… This was the queen you were speaking to—the very woman who held power over the land beneath your feet. What would you do if she asked you to stay away from her son? And then, a thought struck you: if the queen knew… did your mother know too?

Penelope must have noticed the way your posture stiffened, the way your breath hitched slightly. She stepped closer, her voice gentle as she reached out to lightly soothe your arm. "Sweetie, I’m not mad," she confirmed, a small smile forming as she tried to soothe your panic. "You have nothing to be afraid of." Your eyes lifted hesitantly to hers.

"I couldn’t be more grateful that my son fell for someone like you," she continued, her voice warm with sincerity. "You’re so kind. Thoughtful. Loving. You bring out something in him I haven’t seen in years—not just joy, but… peace. He’s softer when you’re around, as a mother, what more could I ask for?" Penelope brought a strand of hair behind your ear.

"But… I’m… I’m just a—"

"A girl," Penelope finished for you, with a knowing smile. "Yes. A girl with strength. Gentle. Someone who listens, who cares more deeply than she lets on." She looked at you, really looked at you, as if peeling back every layer you tried to hide behind.

Her voice dipped, warm and motherly now. "You love him?" She asks. Slowly, you nodded vulnerably. She smiles, "Then, that is all that matters"

You never truly saw yourself as all those things. Hearing them now, spoken so sincerely by the queen, left you unsure of how to feel. Her words offered a kind of warmth you weren’t used to—one you always quietly craved.

The mother’s love you grew felt distant, conditional, rare. And yet, here was Penelope, speaking to you not only as someone who accepted your love for her son, but as someone who saw you—really saw you—in a way that felt… motherly.

You felt overwhelmed. Because, for one, you were happy that the queen accepted your feelings for Telemachus. And also cause you felt loved as a daughter.

You could only smile before leaning in to embrace the queen. Penelope returned it just as warmly, her hand gently resting on your back. "Just… please don’t tell my mother," you mumbled, almost sheepishly, earning a soft chuckle from her. "I understand," she whispered, and you believed her.

You did end up telling the queen about Telemachus’ departure, guilty as you apologized for staying quiet—honoring the request he left behind. But Penelope only offered a tired smile, the kind that held more understanding than disappointment, and told you she had known of his plans all along—just hadn’t expected him to leave so soon. You admired her in that moment. It didn’t take a god to see it: the tired in her smile, the quiet ache behind her eyes. She was tired, and you couldn’t blame her—not when you, too, were wilting under the weight of Telemachus' absence after only a few weeks. It made you wonder how heavy her heart must be, having endured twenty years without her king. You admired her strength—quiet, unwavering, and still standing tall.

It didn’t help that you could see traces of Telemachus in the queen’s features—he was her son, after all. Penelope once mentioned how much he resembled his father, though you had never truly pictured the king beyond statues and fading portraits. The resemblance might be striking, but Telemachus carried a different energy—something no man you had ever met possessed. Maybe it was because he was raised by a mother who gave him warmth without demanding he smother it in pride. He had her gentleness, her quiet strength, and yet he still clung to dreams of becoming a man like his father. Perhaps you were overthinking it—or perhaps you just missed him so deeply, you found yourself searching for his soul in every small thing, trying to feel him again in the absence he left behind.

...

Distraction tend to make you forget about your problems, especially the ones that continues to flow, You were currently in the back courtyard to hang the sheets of linen to dry. The white sheets hang as the wind gently blew with it. You weren't really paying attention to anything else than to your chore, but when you pushed aside the sheets to pass by, your mother stood behind a distance, causing you flinch in surprised. "Mom- you scared me" You clench your chest before simply passing by her.

You and your mother... were different. You knew that very early on. You didn't really know her, as she was focused on her work and seemed to have nothing outside of that. Even though you both shared the same eyes, the two of you held them differently. Hers were always empty, unreadable while yours wandered, caught on the small beauties she never seemed to notice.

"You've been here for half an hour now, and yet you haven't finished." She tended to do that a lot—the voice without any emotion, but words just harsh enough to sound mean.

"The sun felt good on the skin today. This is my last chore before noon, so I thought I could take my time." That was also the difference between you two—you were full of life—aware of the life around you, while she only seemed to move through it.

You heard her sigh as you felt her come closer. Suddenly standing beside you as she began hanging the remaining sheets with you. "I can do them myself mother" You said, "The sun won't wait for you (name)" She said.

Sighing at her remark before you went back to yourself, silence followed as the two of you faced each other—but never truly met. That was one thing about the wind: it was always there, during your happy days with Telemachus, your quiet days alone, and the underlying tension between you and your mother, who always seemed to be a step away from you.

"I saw you with Queen Penelope the other day," she stated suddenly. It made you freeze—as you slowly looked up at her. Her face didn’t change a bit. "You seemed to have a moment with each other. What did you tell her?" You blinked. The air felt colder despite the sun. "Nothing much," you said, carefully, eyes returning to your hands. "She just wanted to talk."

"Talk?" she echoed, folding a cloth like practiced. "You've been talking a lot, I’ve noticed that. Especially when it comes to people of higher standing."

There it was again—never cruel, never loud, but always sharp. You didn’t respond. "I just hope you know your place," she added, her voice quieter now, though no less firm.

"She was just asking about the young prince whereabouts, that's all." You said trying to sound calm, your mother gave you a look "And you know that information because?"

You lied, "I don't. She was just asking me and the queen purely got sentimental for the prince"

You shoot your eyes to your mother as she stared back at you, she hummed before not saying anything. You continue to stare at her with a frown.

"I hear the Prince is in a diplomatic mission."

You lips turned into a thin line. "Who told you that?"

"People love to talk," she replied without looking at you, your fingers had gone stiff. "Some even say it’s for an arranged marriage." Your head snapped to her.

"What?" She didn’t flinch. She didn’t even blink. "You heard me."

"Where did you hear that?" your eyes narrowed.

"People talk," she repeated, "Why?" She then asked, her eyes looking at you flat. "Does that surprise you?" She asked in a way that almost scares you.

You blinked, "It doesn’t," you muttered quickly. "Just wasn’t expecting to hear that from you, is all."

She narrowed her eyes slightly, catching the tremble in your voice no matter how well you tried to hide it. "He's the prince," she said after a moment. "It's not strange for him to be sent on missions like this. Especially now, with the king still absent, someone has to keep the name of Ithaca alive." You bit the inside of your cheek. "And if it is a marriage alliance, then it’s only natural," she continued with a shrug. "That’s what children of royalty do. Make ties, build bridges. Fall in love with whoever brings strength to the kingdom."

"I doubt the prince is in love," you said softly, eyes fixed on the cloth in your hands. Maybe it was for your own reassurance, or maybe a quiet protest.

Your mother's tone stayed level, "That hardly matters. He’s what—twenty? Soon to be crowned. Love isn’t what the kingdom needs from him right now. It’s stability. A fair match who can offer strength where it’s needed."

You went quiet, feeling a slight shift in your chest. You shouldn't be taking this rumor deeply, especially since you know the truth. But in some way—you knew her statement could be more correct than false.

She continued, still calm, as if pointing out a fact to the world. "Queen Penelope’s held Ithaca together for years, but even she can only do so much. The weight of a kingdom isn’t easy. A marriage alliance would make only sense, another kingdom’s hand could mean new trade, new support." You hated how empty that sounded, it wasn't a mock, it wasn't a hit to spite you, it wasn't anything but a fact and you hated it.

Then your mother turned to face you fully. Your expression had tightened, and in her gaze, you saw something oddly soft—reflective, almost. Like she was speaking to a version of herself in you. "And that’s where you come in," she said, calmly.

You blinked, your brows pulling together in confusion. "Huh? What do you mean?"

"You’ll replace me." The words didn’t register at first. Not until she added, "You'll be the next queen’s handmaiden."

You froze. A chill swept past you despite the warm breeze. Something about the certainty in her voice unnerved you, like she had already accepted a path you didn’t even know existed yet. You searched her face, waiting for more to come out—hoping she’d say it was just speculation.

But then she gave you a smile before only returning to folding the linens, as if nothing had shifted at all.

You stared at her—revolted, speechless. You remained still, your eyes wide, breath caught in your chest. It was the only time you'd seen something close to joy on her face, and it came from a future for you that she planned—one that involved the man you love, not in the way you'd ever dreamed of. When she smiled, you saw yourself. Ironic, because just a moment ago, she probably saw herself in you too.

"Come inside before the sun burns you," she said simply, her back already turned without glancing back.

You were left alone, the wind brushing your skin, your hair flowing along, your thoughts loud in the quiet scenery. You weren’t sure what unsettled you more—her assumption of your faith in this story, or how natural it sounded coming from her. As if it had already been decided. As if your love was never yours to begin with.

You clenched your fists, trying to compose yourself. You knew the real reason why Telemachus left for that diplomatic mission, and it was far from your mother’s assumption. You were there. You remember how he looked at you, the queen herself knows.

But the more you stood there, the more her words echoed in your mind, looping like a cruel melody. What if... what if she was right? You knew damn well that Queen Penelope wouldn't let any of those suitors touch the throne, but Telemachus needing a royal ally to help him rule? That wasn’t impossible. That could be real. And frightening.

Your heart began to ache. You began to wonder... is the love you share strong enough to endure the distance, and the expectations of a crown? Or were you foolish to believe it ever could be?

You shake your head—you need to be strong. You tell yourself, "Lady Athena, please watch over my dear Telemachus now," you prayed, hoping these bad thoughts would fade. But still, the ache in your heart couldn't leave.

...

Telemachus stepped out of the chamber beside Peisistratus, a lightness in his chest he hadn’t felt in years. The scent of salt and something like hope lingered in the air as his gaze drifted toward the distant sea. "I knew it," he breathed, the weight of dread finally lifting—his father was alive. Peisistratus smiled beside him, teasing gently about his first beard and how he was becoming a man, and the two young princes laughed, finding peace in the quiet shore beneath the rising stars, the crackle of a fire and the promise of reunion warming them more than the flames. "What is your plan now, Telemachus?" Peisistratus asked, tossing more wood into the flame, watching the sparks climb.

Telemachus leaned back on his hands, his gaze still somewhere far. "The obvious. I go home. And prepare."

"For what?"

"For whatever may happen. And… hopefully, my father’s return."

That was all he said. Nothing more. Not about Athena. Not about the things he couldn’t put into words and Peisistratus only nodded, silence shared between the sons of kings.

Then, out of nowhere. Telemachus shared a smile—raising the apple of his cheeks as a pink hue flushed them ever so slightly, Peisistratus took notice and smirked. "Did Eros himself perhaps strike you?" The prince of Pylos humored.

Telemachus turns as he sighs with his smile still on, "I can't wait to see her again" He said accidentally out loud with an obvious hint of lovestruck. Obviously not platonic.

He realized what he said as Peisistratus raised a brow, "Oh? Who?"

"Are we talking about a girl?" Peisistratus asks with his smirk linger.

"Huh?" Telemachus tried to trail off, trying to change the subject. Peisistratus smirk continues. "Uhhuh.. I'm assuming this is the same woman who constantly make you go lost in thought with a heavy blush?"

Telemachus sighs in defeat "That obvious?"

"Very." Peisistratus laughs. "Who's the lucky girl?"

Telemachus' gaze wanders down the water, "Oh…She’s unlike anyone I've ever met." Peisistratus raised a brow but didn’t interrupt. Telemachus’ voice grew softer, steadier—like he was speaking to the waves, not to his friend.

"She’s sharp. Quieter than most, but never small. She speaks little, but when she does, even the wind stays to listen." Telemachus recited like a poem verse of love. "She owns my heart completely… and I can’t wait for when she lets me carry hers." He examined mindlessly but straight from his heart.

"Her name is (name)" Telemachus revealed as he glances at the other prince. The reveal of your name slowly triggered a memory into the Pylos's princes mind as something flickered in his eyes. "Huh." He utters,

"That name sounds oddly familiar"

Telemachus piqued. "What?"

Peisistratus looked out toward the ocean again, hesitant, but something in his tone shifted—curious, careful. "You see... When I was a boy, there was this handmaiden who served in my mother's court. She too never talks but she had a daughter—I think (name) is also the name"

Telemachus turned to him fully—the creases of his eyes hardening from the information. "What happened to them?"

Peisistratus recalls, "There was a scandal, I remembered because it affected my mother dearly. The handmaiden was accused of having an affair with a visiting royal—a man already married, someone with power. When she gave birth, the child—(Name)—was said to resemble him." It caused Telemachus' chest to go still, as it was daunting his heart beat.

"The nobleman's wife found out," Peisistratus continued. "It got bad. She humiliated the handmaiden, accused her for seducing her husband. The court picked up the rumors quickly after that. It was cruel." Telemachus hesitantly asks, "And your father?"

"No. It wasn’t him, he was at war" Peisistratus said, shaking his head firmly. "But my mother heard of it. My mother, she… she was the one who went to the handmaiden in private. Offered her support, my mother really pitied them. Said she could stay in the servants’ quarters with the child. That it wasn’t the child's fault."

Telemachus stayed silent, jaw clenched. "But the handmaiden refused, even planning to just leave the child out to die however my mother was horrified, tried to convince the handmaiden." Peisistratus’s voice softened. "Eventually, the handmaiden left Pylos without a word. Took the child and vanished before dawn. And since then I haven't heard anything" He finishes as he looked over the shaken prince.

A silence settled between them. "I always wondered what happened to them," Peisistratus added after a beat. "And now—gods—it’s strange, to think the girl you love might be that same child from all those years ago."

Telemachus looked back toward the sea, but this time his heart was churning. As he tried to puzzle the pieces: the unspoken distance of you and your mother's relationship. Your unknown background and lack of a last name. Your mother's cautiousness among his blood.

It was difficult to assume but it somehow aligned just right. "What was the handmaiden’s name?" Peisistratus thinks for a second and reveals. And it matched. Telemachus’ breath caught in his throat. All at once, the pieces began falling into place.

It’s interesting how,, after all the years he’s known you—both in silence and closeness—there’s still so much he can to discover, even parts you may not fully know yourself.

"But hey" Peisistratus snapped Telemachus out of his thoughts. "Take what I said with a grain of salt. Maybe it's just a coincidence," he said.

Telemachus reluctantly nodded however a part of him was convinced that it could be true. Now he REALLY wants to go home.

...

Were you offended that your mother planned your future so surely of herself? Maybe. However, in your defense, even before you built feelings for the prince, you always had an image of your own future. It wasn’t dramatic or grand, but it was definitely different from the life you have now. You always imagined exploring the islands, witnessing breathtaking scenery and documenting it with paint and paper—seeing all the exotic plants and flowers you once admired in your old encyclopedia. You wanted to discover anything beyond the confines of walls and duty. You never saw yourself in a royal life, despite quietly admiring a prince for years. Maybe it was because you saw him less as a prince and more of a boy your age that you found cute—but still. You didn't want the path of a servant for the wife of your lover who isn't you.

"Mother, can I talk to you" You meekly murmured to your mother who was busy doing embroidery. "That depends," she replied, clipped. "Did you finally consider my request to learn embroidery? It would do you good to know the patience it takes." She said bluntly.

"I- I yeah I guess" You said. You bite your tongue, eyes flickering between her hands and irises. You tried to guess if it was the best time to confront her however there was no telling what your mother was feeling. "I wanted to speak about what you said to me last time" You finally asked, your fingers nervously curling to the hem of your chiton.

The sound of the scratch of thread against cloth was delayed for a second. As you saw your mother's eyes harden quietly. "..I thought about it" You continued despite the growing pounding in your chest. "And I want to tell you that I am not planning of following your plans as a handmaiden"

She finally glanced your way—briefly. "What made you concluded to that?" She asked calmly, too calmly.

"I have my own dreams, Mother. Don't get me wrong I appreciate the opportunity to have something like that but—it's not what I want" You explained.

You had your posture upright, hands neatly on your sides, You carefully measured your tone, each word wrapped in the most respectful edge you could manage—just to maybe. Maybe help her understand. Maybe make her listen.

Conversations with your mother were always unhinged in a binding way. The kind that even echoed hours later when you're alone. They usually never ended without you questioning yourself extensively. So your breath was uneven now, controlled, as if each inhale was being counted. "And what do you want?" She asked bluntly in a way you can't really tell, but she was always like that, you assumed it was an open door—so your eyes perked when she asked you that, maybe she will listen just this time.

Your lips turned upright, "I want to be free," you said. "To live a life that’s mine. I want to see the islands beyond ours. Paint things no one’s seen before. Name flowers that haven’t been named. I want to document the world, not just serve it." You examine, if somebody else was listening right now, they would hear how your words rang full of something rare. Hope. Excitement. Like a child unveiling a dream for the very first time.

"You want to chase winds and color petals?" You hear her faintly scoff. "That is not freedom, (name). That is fantasy, which is not the world we are in." She set her embroidery aside. "You might as well call it nonviable, considering how stupid it is. You should know that." She stood now, fully facing you, no softness in her voice, no space left for your hope to slip through.

"You can’t do it," she said, final as a conclusion. "Trust me, everyone in the world will believe that dream of yours is a joke." Turning away.

That was the blow, and yet, from that place of a bruised heart, the words left your mouth before you could think—before you could stop them completely. "Telemachus believed in me."

The room went still. You felt it like the moment before a storm comes—the shift in pressure, the silence so sharp it hurts.

Your mother stopped, then turned her head, eyes wide, voice flat. "What." It wasn't a question, she heard it. You should deny it. You should say you meant something else, anything else. But you didn’t want to. Not when your heart was trembling—hurt from being small to her for too long.

"My dream isn’t a joke," you said, voice cracking at the end, but it was truth. "He didn’t think it was." Another silence followed, this time colder. You saw your mother's eyes twitch, "..Have you been talking to him behind my back?" she asked, sounding like something preparing to blow.

Your shoulder tensed, clutching the hem of your chiton lightly. "I didn't mean too." You admitted, "But I'm not sorry that I did." You swallowed your fear. "I love him, mother."

An eerie silence can be heard.

"...So the rumors are true, huh."

Your mother didn't blink, as she stood still—staring at you. You weren't even sure if she was breathing which set something unease in your insides. "I told you not to, did I?" She asked, stepping closer—you unconsciously backed away.

"I told you not to entertain those kinds of ideas. You didn’t listen." You could hear her breath again. But she shook her head slowly. "Girls like you are not supposed to be with them." Her words hung there, bitter and cold. You furrowed your brows, confused, scared.

"What are you talking about?" You asked, unsure. You tried to keep your head high as your mother crept closer. "They will come for you, harshly and brutally. And once they're done, they will leave you nothing but tears and shame. He's going to hurt you, (name)." You didn't like how your name sounded in that sentence.

"Telemachus is not like that," you cut in, your voice more fierce than you meant it to be. "You don’t even know him—"

"And you do?" she snapped, her voice rising as it surprised you. "You think you're any different? That he's different?" She stepped forward. "Do you know what men like him are? Who raised him? What blood runs through his veins? They don’t see girls like you. they would not pity you for your kindness." You stare at her wide, as you could only step away. Your heart continues to beat uncontrollably between your ribs.

"You're incredibly mistaken, Mother," you muttered, mustering the last of your composure. "I’ve known the prince since I was a teen. Even when I kept my distance—just like you asked—he never turned cold. When I was humiliated in front of others, he was the one who stood up for me, even when it could’ve cost him. And while you—" your breath hitched as you pushed the words out, "you only stood there, ashamed of me." Your hands trembled now, but the flood wouldn’t stop.

"The moment I stepped out of your shadow and did something for myself—when I went behind your back—I felt free. I felt like I had a name of my own. I was seen. I was loved. Loved in a way I thought I would never feel."

You looked her dead in the eye now, no longer holding anything back. "And what did you do, mother? All of my life, you avoided me, kept me in a distance that I could never reach for you. You looked past me as if I wasn't even yours!" Slap. Your mother's hand met you, as the harsh blow made you stumble slightly. Strands of your hair clung to your skin where her palm had landed, the sting blooming fast.

Your mother looked at you furiously, something you’d never seen before. But then again… none of this had ever happened before. Cupping the heat, you could only stare at her—you can't bring yourself to glare at her, even when it hurts, you looked her with eyes starting to water.

You interrupted her first. "Why." You asked, "Why are you so scared when you act like you don't even care for me." You didn’t move. Your voice trembled softly. Still, she said nothing. "Why do you look at me like I’m a mistake?" you asked again. Your throat ached now, but the words kept spilling. "Did you ever love me?" The question dropped from your lips like a fragile thing—barely a whisper, but it echoed between the walls.

She flinched. Her face was unreadable. Composed, distant. But her eyes were raw.

"I never wanted you to be with me in this world," she said, You blinked, feeling something in your chest rip. "I didn’t want to raise you. I didn’t know how," she continued, almost too steadily. "You were a reminder. Of everything. Of him. Of myself that I could have been."

It hit you like a slow-burning fire. You weren’t sure if you could breathe "him?" You felt small in that moment—so painfully small.

"I tried to keep you safe by staying away. Because every time I looked at you, I saw the life that ruined mine." You shook your head slowly, barely able to speak. "What- What do you mean..?"

She turned back to the window. "I didn't know how to love something I hate" You stood there as you heard her loud and clear.

She turned slowly to meet your eyes. Her gaze was hollow, but steady. "People kept telling me, I will eventually learn to love you. But every glance I gave you makes me sick...I could only hope you wouldn’t walk the same path as I did. But it seems… you take after him. Full of wonder. And never listen."

Her lips pressed into a thin line before she let the next words fall, quiet but cruel in their clarity. "I wish you were never mine." She told you. "Maybe that way, we were both happier."

It felt like she had stabbed you—with her words that was sharper than any blade. Her eyes, once indifferent, now burned with something far worse: disgust, shame, and anger. Probably, buried beneath it all, was regret—but not the kind that soothes. No, it was the kind of regret that screamed you were a mistake.

You couldn’t speak. What was there to say when the person who brought you into this world looked at you like she wished she hadn’t? Like you shouldn’t exist.

It was horrifying. But the pain was louder than the fear. You looked away. Then turned. Leaving the room without another word.

You didn’t understand everything she meant, not quite. But something was finally clear. The woman who gave birth to you was never your mother. And despite being born from her, you were never her child to her.

...Huh. It's storming.

...

You ignored your mother the following day. It wasn’t like it was hard—she was better at it. Didn’t even glance at you, it feels like true solitude. You weren’t unfamiliar with the feeling; however, you didn’t like it—that’s why Telemachus’ presence colored your soul. If loneliness could kill, you’d be on your deathbed.

Word spreads fast. You could hear the multitude of whispers that passes you about the prince’s absence. You wouldn’t be surprised if the news reached the suitors soon… which, honestly, worried you. If they found out the queen was less guarded now—especially after an unknown staff leaked to them about the unweaving—who knew what they might do?

You pressed your hand gently to your chest. "I’ll come back before you know it," he had said, voice barely above the sea wind, his hand lingering in yours. You had replayed it over and over like a lullaby that tried but failed to comfort you completely. You really hoped he would return. You really hoped he'd make it in time.

The door of the main hall shunned open, causing the suitors to stop their noise and mid-boast to look over—their curiosity getting fed as the queen entered with a stern, regal look. A few numbers of sentinels around her weary yet valiant aura.

You leaned closer to the corridor’s edge, careful not to fully reveal yourself, but just enough to see. But it wasn’t just her presence that stilled the room. It was the large, unstrung bow she held in her arms—long, worn, and looked very heavy. King Odysseus’ bow.

The moment their eyes caught it, the suitors stirred like caged beasts at the scent of blood. Excitement sparked in their voices, followed by murmurs, then full-blown chants. Clearly excited for a challenge they have no match for. Penelope stepped forward, lifting the heavy bow before the crowd. The hall fell into silence, save for the distant crackle of a torch on the wall. You caught the queen's eye for a second, softening for a second before gazing back at the men.

"This is the bow of Odysseus," she began, her voice clear and cold. "The man I wed. The man this throne still belongs to."

A stir went through the crowd—some confused, some scoffing. She raised the bow higher, as if presenting a relic to be seen. Penelope looked at each suitor, gaze unwavering.

"You claim to be worthy of me. Of this kingdom. Of my son's future. Then prove it on this day." A murmur rippled across the room.

She nodded to a male servant, who stepped forward carrying a row of twelve axe heads. "Whoever can string my husband's old bow and shoot through 12 axes cleanly. Will be the new king, sit down at the throne and rule with me as his queen." She revealed.

You listen to this with an uneasy feeling, you watch as the suitors gather to the said bow. Already hearing the complaints.

"If none of you can..." her tone darkened ever so slightly, "then you were never meant to stand where he once sat." She concluded.

Even you felt chills run down your spine at her words. The authority in her voice left no room for argument. After the challenge was declared, the queen didn’t waste a second more in that room. She turned swiftly and exited, her robes trailing like waves behind her.

You straightened your posture the moment she stepped out, composed. "Your Highness," you greeted with your head bowed low. "(Name)," Penelope replied, her tone noticeably softer. You raised your head, only to meet her eyes—warm, "How are you, dear?" she asked, her voice gentler than you expected after such a fierce announcement.

You gave a faint hum. "I’m doing just fine… my queen. Thank you for asking," you said, gaze cast downward again.

A short pause followed before then came her soft chuckle, light but knowing. "Your eyes tend to lie with you, (Name)," she said, almost fondly.

You let out a defeated chortle, "Just trying my best to wait, my queen," you answered, your voice lower now, a hint of weariness slipping through. Penelope’s soft gaze didn’t leave you as she stepped closer. "You remind me so much of myself, my dear." Her words caught in your chest.

"Waiting… with only our hope to keep us standing," she said gently. "But don’t you worry, (Name)," she continued, taking your hands into hers. You looked into the queen’s eyes—eyes filled with hope and trust, so much so that you felt it too.

"Our waiting will be over soon." You were left speechless at her sentence, as the queen smiled at you one last time before excusing herself. You couldn’t come up with a response, standing there with her words echoing in your mind.

What does she mean by that? Our waiting? Is something coming? Is Telemachus coming home at last?

From the thought of it—your eyes lit up with hope, the little spark you felt when you were with him beginning to glisten. Your cheeks rose as you smiled—truthfully. You then turned around, a smile still plastered on your face—but when you raised your head, the sight before you slowly wiped it away.

In the quiet distance, you could see Eurymachus staring at you, and though his gaze already burned your skin, another thing made your stomach drop. Your mother standing beside him, as if they had just finished talking. Her eyes met yours, and you questioned her with your gaze.

She stood still, staring at you bluntly. A lump formed in your throat, too hard to swallow. You were about to do something—when a handmaiden called for you.

They reminded you about the chores that needed to be done and it reminded you that you're supposed to be in garden duty right now. You mentally scolded yourself. When you looked back to your mother—she was already gone. So fast that it made you question if you had really seen her at all. But Eurymachus was still there. You could feel his smirk as he turned away to return to his men.

You shake your head, before forcing yourself to not let it get to you. You walked away, pushing down the ache, compelling yourself to stay on the positive side.

You can't let yourself be brought down by the woman who regrets you. For now you could only occupy yourself for safety and distraction. A little more waiting and this may be all over.

Too distracted from the stalking gaze behind you.

...

"Eurymachus!"

The name stretched out, dragged by the voice of a suitor who leaned lazily. "Stop lurking after that girl and give us a hand here! will you?" Another one snorted. "Or at least save your stalking for when her back’s turned, man. You’re so obvious."

Eurymachus let out a deep chuckle as he approached, brushing off their jabs, he let out a rasped chuckle, sauntering over. "Can’t blame a man for watching beauty when it walks."

"You’ve got your eye on her too often," another one chimed in, grinning slyly.

"Sounds more like you’re ready to toss your bid for the queen and go chasing maids instead." Another chimed in.

Eurymachus grinned. "Why not both? Crown’s heavier with a queen beside you, isn’t it? I want the power of a king and a queen to match—but a sweet young thing on the side?" He shrugged. "No crime in keeping options."

A suitor let out a bark of laughter. "Says the man planning a whole buffet at his royal table."

"Don't pretend you wouldn’t all drop your noble wives the second you tasted royalty," Eurymachus drawled, eyes half-lidded. "Loyalty doesn’t crown you. Power does." That earned a few nods and crude laughs—but someone else hummed lowly, glancing sideways. "Still… what was that earlier? Her mother came to speak to you. That woman looked creepy." Eurymachus didn’t answer right away. His smirk only deepened. "You'll see," he said simply, cryptic. "But for now, let the little lamb run the field. No need to clip wings before they fly straight into the trap."

A suitor squinted. "Aren’t you worried someone else might get there first?"

"I can handle boys pretending to be men," he said, dismissive.

Another elbowed him, half-grinning. "You sure about that? One 'Machus' might have something to say. You know… TeleMACHUS?"

"Oh yeah! The prince won't be too pleased, you touching his favorite maid!" That line landed sharply. The laughter dimmed a little, "Come to think of it… when’s the last time we even saw the prince?"

"Hasn’t been around the hall in days," another muttered. "And not a word."

"Not like the prince to vanish in silence," someone else added, tone lower now. "He’s young, sure, but not foolish." Silence briefly fell between them—shadows creeping in behind their half-laughed lines.

...

The palace garden's calming sound was a welcome contrast to the chaotic uproar of the suitors earlier. You physically felt yourself breathe easier as you stepped into the space. A strong storm had passed the previous night, leaving the garden slightly disheveled—damp leaves, bent stems, and fallen flower heads littered the grass. It would be a pain to work on wet ground, sure, but anything was better than sharing air with those men. At least the rain had watered the plants, so there wasn’t much to do. You picked up the broom propped against the stone wall and began to sweep, the wet leaves dragging along the path. Your gaze eventually fell on a scattered pile of dark, fallen petals near the base of one of the flower beds. You crouched down and reached for them.

Black dahlias. Their the few rare flowers that the palace has planted, sadden that the storm destroyed them.

They must’ve snapped under the wind. You gently gathered them up, letting the cool softness press against your palm. They always bloomed by the edges, close to the wall where Telemachus used to work with you. You smiled faintly as the memory came.

You were busy planting the black dahlia your mother had insisted you tend to. It had already bloomed, petals dark as wine and curled outward. You crouched lower, careful as you dug, trying not to bruise its roots. The garden was quiet, the sky still and gray. You were focused, so deeply tuned into the gentle rhythm of your work, that you didn’t hear the footsteps approaching behind you—slowly.

"Boo!" You flinched with a sharp yelp, your hands jerking—and the trowel of dirt you were holding flew through the air, catching its target unexpectedly.

"Ack—!" came the sputtered sound. You turned around, wide-eyed, only to see Telemachus blinking at the dirt, an exaggerated look of betrayal on his face. "Telemachus! You scared me!" You gasped with a frown.

But the prince only laughed—an open, bright sound that lit up the garden more than any morning sun could. He smiled, not at the mess, not at the prank, but only at you. That smile he always specially saved just for you. Upon his laugh, you slapped his shoulder as you couldn't help but to crack a giggle yourself. "Sorry! Sorry! I had to!" Telemachus said.

"You're always so unaware of what's behind you that it's so easy to come from behind," he defended, brushing a clump of soil from his tunic. "I should’ve thrown a whole shovel at you instead, hm?" you scoffed dramatically, giving him a pointed glare before turning your attention back to the flower. Telemachus huffed before plopping down beside you with a pout, his arms crossed like a sulking child. "You wound me, my lady. I come to offer my help and affection, and this is how I’m repaid?"

You smirked, eyes still on your task. "By help? You mean flinging dirt and distracting me from my work?"

"I call it keeping you entertained and companied," he grinned, without looking, you scooped a tiny handful of soil and flicked it at him. It hit the side of his neck, and he stared at you in disbelief.

"Oh, it's war now," he warned.

"Don’t you dare—" Too late. His hand dipped into the dirt, and he threw across your cheek. You gasped, both now laughing, and now turning it into a mini war.

But then he caught your wrist mid-air, holding it between you both. His hand was warm, grounding. You looked up—and found him already watching you, his grin softening.

The laughter died down between you, replaced with a quiet tension. Not the bad kind—the kind that curled in your stomach. You noticed how close your faces were, how his eyes always seemed to trace your features like he was trying to memorize them. "You’ve got dirt on your nose," he whispered, you blinked, suddenly aware of your heartbeat—then quickly pulled your hand away and cleared your throat

"It’s your fault," you muttered, trying to hide your smile.

"Aw I'm sorry, my lady, would you like me to wipe it for you?" he replied, voice teasing, but deep down he meant it. He stayed kneeling beside you, close, as you both resumed working on the garden—but the silence wasn’t empty. It was full of everything unspoken. You could only give him a sarcastic roll as he remained next to you while you resumed your work—shoulders touching but his presence wrapped around you.

The memory brought a quiet smile into your face, looking over the said spot as the wind blew your hair. You quickly finished your work before the wind could fly them too—as your hands now got a bit dirty. You walked towards a nearby fountain just beside the garden, sitting down, your chiton hanging as you carefully cleaned your fingers.

You hummed to yourself—something you do when silence takes place as you let water wash the dirt off, your eyes drifting to the water running down the fountain, admiring the sight of the sea from behind that stole your attention, the sea's view was beautiful from this point. Having the palace being in the high part of Ithaca gave a beautiful advantage for the sight. The calm waves occupying the emptiness of the ocean. Your lips tried to keep a smile but the longer you stared at it, it downcasted.

Then your head shot at a sudden noise—a branch breaking, you lightly tensed up from the sound. You moved a little to peek who was it and to see a hooded figure, they were hunched a little, clothes worn. He walked slow, cane in hand, almost blending with the shadows under the olive trees.

He seemed to be facing you, you blink in surprise. "Hello?" You greeted a little confused but still sounding friendly.

The figure paused at your voice. A moment passed, just long enough for your heartbeat to quicken as his head tilted slightly under the hood, as if measuring your tone, your face, your presence. Then, slowly, he shuffled—his cane tapping.

"Didn’t mean to startle you," the voice that emerged was gravelly, aged… but there was something about it. Something too steady for a beggar. "Didn’t know anyone was still tending the garden."

You rose to your feet slowly, brushing your damp hands down your chiton. "It hasn't stopped storming since this morning so It needed to be tidied.." You gave a careful smile, trying to read his face beneath the shadow of the hood. "Is there anything I could perhaps help you, sir?" You asked the hooded figure carefully as you took notice of how he seemed to be cautious.

"Uh, no. I'm fine… thank you," he said, his voice low and rasped like dry stone against stone. He turned slightly, ready to move on.

"Are you certain?" you asked gently. "The palace is quite the steps uphill. Maybe a glass of water would help?" He paused. There was a flicker of hesitation, like a man weighing whether your kindness was worth the risk. Then, with a small grunt of reluctant gratitude, he nodded. "Alright… a drink would be kind."

You smiled, taking a step forward. "Follow me, then—" But before the words could fully leave your lips, he had already turned and begun walking, "Okay...?" You said to yourself

He did not move like a stranger unfamiliar with his surroundings, you blinked, surprised but decided to keep quiet. He was heading toward the side corridor that led to the older part of the palace—the courtyard with the olive press, and just beyond it, the smaller kitchen used mostly by the handmaidens during the off hours. Few knew it existed.

You didn’t press further. You poured the man a glass of water then you step back to give him space to refine himself, at first the man just stared at the glass, but you let him with his time before turning away. You decided to keep the silence between you two as you cleaned up.

"I want to ask" The man started, you turned your head to face him, his face was hidden through the shadows of his hood that was concealing his identity however you could see the faint irises through the darkness. "I'm assuming you're a worker here right?" He asked carefully.

You nodded, fully turning to face him now. "You seemed rather calm seeing me—some stranger wandering around the palace grounds. Even offered me help." His eyes flicked to yours, unreadable. "I definitely don’t look like someone who belongs here, so I’m surprised you didn’t question anything." You blinked at his words, caught slightly off guard. Your mouth opened, then closed again as you stumbled for a response.

"Uh… well," you began, trying to piece the thought together. "I suppose I’m not surprised because strangers are… becoming more common around here." You looked down briefly. "Especially with the events happening at the moment, it is to be expected. It is my job to be hospitable to guests."

"Are you not afraid though?" The man asked bluntly. You were taken aback by the simplicity of the question. Your lips curved into a faint smile as you let out a soft chuckle. "Well... I'm not really in the mind to judge," you answered honestly. "And, uh—pardon me—but is there something I should be afraid of?" You tilted your head slightly, almost naively.

The man stayed silent at your remark making you feel awkward as you rubbed your hands together. "No. nothing" He said, making you lightly sighing, "But you should have been cautious, I could have been someone different" He said.

You nodded as you looked towards the hodded man. You studied him, You didn't sense danger from him. Mystery, yes. Weariness. Perhaps even pain. But not threat.

He was covered after all and the only indication of his presence was his voice—which now when you listened more carefully, it slightly piqued you. He sounded something familiar, not exact but more similar. Though he sounded more guarded, strict and rough. You could tell he went through a lot. "I think…" you murmured, narrowing your eyes slightly, "it's because you sound similar to someone I have in mind. I guess that's why I don’t see you as any sort of threat." You offered him a small like you were trying to justify your own carelessness.

The man didn’t say anything. He only stared at you under the shadow of his hood as though your words caught him somewhere deep.

You didn’t know why you said that. Telemachus had nothing to do with this man. And yet, you couldn’t help but draw the line in your thoughts—his tone. In your mind, you could almost hear yourself groan. You're really this down bad, huh? So down bad that a hoarse-voiced stranger vaguely sounding like Telemachus made you feel safe.

It was ridiculous. Still, you found yourself standing straighter now. As if that little sliver of familiarity gave you something solid to rest on. "I'm sorry, I must sound like a fool," you chuckled, brushing your hands against your chiton. "Comparing you to him so casually, I apologize" His brow twitched just slightly beneath the hood. "Him?"

You shook your head. "Just someone I miss dearly" You examine mostly to yourself. "Where is he now, may I ask?" the hooded man asked, his voice low.

You turned surprised at the man before your eyes drifted toward the open window again, the distant sea shimmering under the sun’s gaze. "He's at sea," you replied softly. A small silence lingered in the air, broken only by the distant cry of gulls and the rustling wind through the trees outside. 'Is that why you were staring out there earlier for so long?' he asked gently. 

You blinked, caught off guard by his quiet observation. "Forgive me," he added. "I didn’t mean to catch you off guard." 

"No… no, it’s okay," you replied, "Just surprised, that’s all." You paused, letting your fingers trace the edge of the table near you. "But yes… I’ve been staring at the sea ever since we were separated. It's become a habit, really." You offered a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. "People say staring at something for too long makes time feel slower," you continued, voice softer now, like you were sharing something sacred. "But I can’t help it. Every wave, every glimmer of light off the tide… it gives me hope." You turned back to the sea, your eyes distant. "I can’t help but wait for a glimpse of him returning."

You leaned against the counter. "He’s like the sea," you murmured. "Some days he’s gentle, warm, soft-spoken, easy to tease. It’s like nothing bad can ever reach you when he’s near. But then there are days he’s quiet… heavy, like he’s carrying too much inside. Still, no matter what version of him shows up, I wait. Because like the sea, even when he’s out of sight, I know he’s there—moving, trying, finding his way back." You paused, voice softening. "And I’ll be here. When he does."

The man beside you didn’t speak immediately, but you felt something shift in the air. Like the silence had deepened somehow. You could hear the man's hum as he shifted, "You're a good kid" He told you. "I can tell your kindness is very tampered through these halls" You looked at him curiously, lips parting—but he didn’t give you time to speak again.

"Thank you for the water," he said, already turning to leave.

"Uh, you're welcome—uh but uh, I didn't catch your name, sir," you called out, a little hesitant, unsure why you even wanted to know.

He paused for just a breath, not even glancing back. "No need, be careful out here" he uttered, voice rough and final, before continuing on his way. You stood there for a moment, watching his figure slowly disappear behind the bend of the palace wall as the breeze picked up again.

He was... definitely something. You couldn’t help but feel drawn to the mystery that clung to him. You couldn’t exactly explain why—but everything about him was oddly precarious, unsettling in a way that didn’t scare you, but made you question. He walked like he already knew where each step would fall. You really should have been more cautious, maybe even more guarded toward him—he was a stranger after all. But you couldn’t bring yourself to treat him like one.

You sighed, gaze trailing after the empty path he left behind. And just like that, you were alone again. The wind stirred the olive branches above, brushing softly against your shoulder. The echo of his voice remained in your head, low and familiar, even if you didn’t know why. And you feel lighter to your chest.

You let a little time pass, purposely dragging out your outside chores to avoid going back inside. You half-expected one of the senior servants to scold you for slacking off—but strangely, no one had passed through the halls near the garden. Not like usual.

At first, you welcomed the quiet, but as time passed by more, the silence began to bother you. It was too quiet. Silence was always a gamble to you. You hated how it could mean two things—peace or danger. And deep down, you always knew which one it was.

With a sigh, you decided to check the palace. Your light steps felt louder than usual, each one echoing, it didn’t help that the halls seemed to absorb every sound. But then—you passed the inner edge of the garden wall, your ears caught something—murmurs. Finally.

But.. these weren’t idle conversations. Voices were low. Careful. The kind where people tend to whisper to hide. Curiosity rooted your feet. You followed the sound until you reached a side corridor—the one where the suitors often gathered. You peered through the slightest crack of the wooden door, just barely able to listen.

It was just voices at first—sharp murmurs scraping against the walls—but then one voice rose. Antinous. The air seemed to shift, heat rising as he stood at the center of the suitors. With a snarl, he grabbed the great bow and threw it to the ground, the wood hit the marble with a crack—but it didn’t break.

"Screw this damn challenge!" he snapped, turning in a full circle. "...I'm telling you, this is a damn joke," Antinous growled, arms wide. "String the king’s old bow? What kind of child's game is this? A little trial to amuse the widow while we rot in patience?" Murmurs of frustration, and anger brewed among the men. Some nodded. Some grunted. But all listened.

"We've been here for hours!" he shouted. "All of us—sweating like slaves, looking like fools. And for what? A bow no one can string. Can't you see it?" He took deliberate steps toward the dais, the shadows clinging to him like a cloak. His hand ran across the throne’s side, rough with age and carved history, before he sat on it without hesitation.

"This," he said, voice dropping low with venom, "is how they hold us down." Everyone stilled, including you.

"This. This is the time where we must charge for action. That burning fire in your chest is what we take control." As he said that the crackles of the flames in room rang as it filled the place. The silence between after sentence made your heart pound faster, not knowing what to expect next. "Haven't you all noticed who's missin'?" Your eyes widen. You felt your breath stop.

"Don't you know, that the little wolf isn't here after all." He chuckles. The men replied. "I heard he's on a diplomatic mission and I heard today he comes back at time" He announced.

"what?" You shot, fixated on what he said. The men started to crack a grin upon realizing the route of plan their leader was hinting. "Why don't we... say gather near the shore, where we wait til his ship arrives"

"And if we leave now, it may be just enough time to strike him." Your blood went cold.

The words slid into your ears like ice through veins, and suddenly the world spun—too slow, too loud, too sharp. You hadn’t realized how tightly you were clutching the wall until your fingers began to numb, white at the knuckles. You tried to swallow, but your throat closed up, breath hitching at the edges of a scream you couldn’t make. It couldn't be. Were they—?

"Hold him down as he stops shaking!" a voice barked, and others responded with a vile kind of cheer. "While I slit his neck open," Then Antinous laughed.

It was wrong. The sound didn’t belong to a man—it was a monster. "As we slowly break all his bones," he said, voice curling with something too dark to name. "Let his pride, his trust, and his faith hang like meat from his broken flesh." You bit your own tongue.

You had to. To stop your teeth from chattering. To stop yourself from sobbing. To stop your breath from making a sound loud enough to give you away.

Oh gods. You wanted to run. But your legs didn’t move. You wanted to scream. But air refused your lungs. Your hands wouldn't stop trembling. They shook so violently you pressed them against your mouth, your chest, anywhere that could silence them.

"After we're done with him," Antinous drawled, his voice dropping low like a closing door, "only the sea and myself will know where his remains are. You turned away, back pressed flat against the cold stone wall. Your heartbeat was a frantic thud in your ears, your pulse so loud it nearly drowned out the rest. You were going to be sick.

Telemachus. They were talking about your Telemachus.

Every cruel word carved its way into your bones, into your chest, pressing so hard you thought your ribs might crack from holding the panic inside. You had to warn someone. You had to move. But even as you willed yourself, your knees threatened to buckle.

They were going to kill him. You have to get up. They said he's coming home today, you just have to beat them first to it—right?

"And then finally.." The phrase caused you to feel like your feet was chained.

"Hold her down." Oh No.

"Now that there is no one that can stop us from breaking the bedroom door." No no.

Their voices start to linger with excitement that burns, you hear footsteps. "As we hold her down."

"While we get a taste." No.

"Hold her down while we share her royal spoils! I will not let any part go to waste!" The men cheered, as you froze. The queen. They were planning not just to kill Telemachus—but to take the queen. By force.

Your breath caught sharp in your chest, You couldn’t move. But you really needed to. You needed to. Now. Move.

Someone was coming. You tried to stand but your knees were useless beneath you—numb, shaking. You pressed a hand to the wall. The stone felt too far, too dark. Everything blurred.

Stand up. You screamed it to yourself. Stand up. You couldn’t hear anything—except the muffled pounding of your heart and—

"Gotcha." A voice, too close, your head turned in slow motion. Your limbs were frozen, and your stomach dropped. Your body knew before your mind caught up. Your lips trembled. You couldn't even muster a scream before a pair of hands yanked you off the floor. You shrieked, thrashing in reflex. You kicked your heels down, anything to get free. The light of the room stung your eyes.

"Get off of me! Let go!!" you screeched, voice cracking under your panic. You fought like a cornered animal—because you knew, you were one. In the blur of the motion, you couldn’t make out the face—but the scent of wine and sweat, the sound of mocking breath too close to your ear, the way the grip tightened to bruise.

You wanted to curse him out. "Well," came the voice, smug and slow, the grin practically audible, "What do we have here?" Your throat closed again as tears lined your eyes, more from rage and horror than fear now. Eurymachus.

He watched your panic state like it was the finest entertainment he’d been served in days. His grip tightened around the parts of you that were too strong to break free from, while his breath skimmed too close to your skin, heavy. "Eavesdropping now?" Eurymachus cooed darkly, like a wolf playfully circling its kill. "Not a very good girl to do, hm?"

He slid his hand to your face, fingers curling cruelly beneath your chin, then clenching your jaw between his calloused fingers like he owned it. You hated it, the way it felt rough and made you rose to your stomach. You flinched instinctively, twisting your face away—disgust rising sharp in your throat.

Without thinking, your lips parted—and you spat, unflinching, right onto his face. The silence cracked. A beat passed. Just one.

Then—SLAP.

The slap stinged loudly. Your head snapped to the side, and your body dropped with it. Your knees collapsed, and you hit the floor hard, shoulder scraping the stone, pain biting through your spine. The ringing in your ears blocked out the first wave of laughter from the suitors. You raised your head enough to stare him dead in the eye—your head messy from his hit, a redden mark forming into your cheek.

Eurymachus wiped the spit off his face slowly, eyes black with fury. "Filthy little bitch," he muttered. Then he grabbed you by the wrist—bruising tight—and dragged you like a disobedient dog.

Your sandals scraped against the floor, you kicked against the tug, but the floor gave no traction, the laughter grew louder. You were thrown down again, right before the throne where Antinous now stood. He stepped forward with the calm of someone who had all the time in the world to decide how you’d suffer as his eyes studied you, dissected you. He crouched low, boots scraping the stone, and tilted his head just slightly.

"Get away from me" You barely whisper, as your knees tried to support you. You backed away, but his steps closer was faster. "Or what?" He mocked with a sly grin on.

You honestly didn’t know anymore. None of this was within your control, your body remained frozen, skin cold, blood hammering in your ears. You could feel the weight of a hundred eyes pressing into you like needles. Watching. Waiting.

Still, you tried. You swallowed hard, forcing your lips into a line and biting down on the bottom one to ground yourself. Anything to stop the trembling. You wouldn’t show fear. You refused to. But you didn’t answer either.

The silence drew longer, heavier.

Antinous scoffed with a breath of humor, the kind that made your stomach twist. "Yeah," he muttered, "thought so."

"Brothers," he called out, voice laced with theatrical cruelty. He stepped closer before you could take a step back, his hand snapped forward and seized your wrist. You gasped. His grip yanked you backwards and locked you there, his arm snaking around to pin you against him. His hold strangled your breath, forcing your chin up so the room could see you clearly.

You were dragged to the center like an exhibit. Faces blurred into a sea of leering eyes—suitors with grins too wide, too sharp. The room was hungry.

"I think," Antinous said darkly, "we’ve just found the perfect bait… for when we kill the prince." Your eyes widened. You opened your mouth to scream, protest—anything—but a rough cloth was shoved between your lips before the words could form. You let out a muffled cry as panic flared. Your limbs jerked, fought, twisted—but it was no use.

Then—a sudden, sharp pain nicked your throat. You froze, the cool press of something thin and sharp lingered just enough to draw blood. "One wrong move and you’re dead, sweetheart," Antinous whispered into your ear, voice low and snake-slick. You shivered as the laughter erupted around you. Your helpless obedience cracked them up.

"Antinous, don’t scare the girl too much!" Eurymachus called mockingly through the laughter. "We want her pretty for the stage!"

They laughed again. And you stood there—crying, gagged, bleeding—caught in a nightmare that hadn’t even reached its peak. "You and the prince have a thing, don’t you?" You froze. The blade pressed deeper. "Oh, don’t act surprised," the voice cooed mockingly. "You fellow servants aren’t as loyal as you think. They’ll say anything when the sheets are warm." He leaned closer, breath hot against your ear. "But you—you’re different, huh? The lucky one. The one the young prince picked."

The dagger traced idle. "I heard from your little friends… you draw. Why don’t you sketch us a picture, hm? One of what we’ll do to your prince." The room erupted in laughter. Loud, echoing, vile. You couldn’t focus—so many voices, so many hands, too much heat and noise.

"You have a pretty face, you know that?" he said again. You didn’t answer. "You’ve got the face of a princess… if you even knew that." The blade jabbed, not deep, but enough to make your breath hitch. Then silence—followed by a theatrical gasp. "Oh. You don’t know?" he chuckled darkly.

You shot him a confused look, your heart pounding louder than the voices. He burst into laughter and looked over at Eurymachus. "Should we tell her?"

Eurymachus shrugged with a smirk. "Nah. Let her hear it from the woman herself." You croaked through the cloth, trying to say something. They just laughed harder.

"Let’s just say… your mother is a hell of a woman," one of them said with a cruel glint. Before your mind could piece anything together, more voices chimed in—louder, hungrier.

"I say we lure the prince in with her—stripped bare and screaming!"

"No, no, we kill her first! Make the boy watch before we take him next!"

"I say we kill them both together—like some twisted Romeo and Juliet!"

The room spiraled with howls and jeers, each suggestion more grotesque than the last.

"Hold 'em down!" They changed continually.

The blade pressed deeper into your skin—any more and it would end you here. Your eyes stayed wide, fixed on the men cheering, their faces twisted by the dancing red flames. Was this hell? You stared at the man laughing at your suffering. His eyes locked onto yours, merciless, enjoying every tremble in your frame. You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

And then—something shifted. A rush in the air. A presence. You didn’t turn. You didn’t need to. The last thing you saw was the sharp ruthlessness in Antinous’ eyes before an arrow tore through his skull.

Silence. Then blood. It exploded across your face and body, warm and sudden. Everything slowed. His eyes widened in blank surprise as he turned—half a motion, too late—to find the source. His body dropped like stone. The sound of it hitting the floor was swallowed by the rising panic in the room.

And just like that, the laughter stopped.

You stared at his bleeding body as the room fell silent, frozen in disbelief. Antinous—just moments ago, laughing—now lay dead in a pool of blood. All eyes locked on his corpse, stunned.

Then, you saw him. A figure. A man. It was the same hooded man from earlier, holding the bow. He looked furious. But he shot away your chance of death.

No one else noticed him yet. Their shock clung too tightly to Antinous. You didn’t wait. You ran, bolted so fast that you couldn’t spare the man a glance—you couldn’t risk it. The wind behind you howled cold, so cold it made the flames burn red.

Your collar was leaking with blood. You pressed a trembling hand against the open wound as you stumbled through the halls. Every part of your body screamed from the abuse. Your head was spinning from the fear and pain, thoughts scattered like broken glass.

You didn’t know where you were going. You had no plan, you just ran.

The queen. She was the only one you could think of—your only hope at the moment, maybe she was in her chambers, which was far from the suitors. But something was wrong. You paused, breath ragged, vision spinning. "W-What...?" you whispered. You looked around. No—no, this couldn’t be right. You recognized this corridor. You'd passed it already.

Had you run in circles? Where were the stairs? The exit? Seven years in this palace, you should know it like the lines in your hands. And yet you were lost—utterly, frighteningly lost.

You kept moving despite your legs barely obeyed, fear and panic burning them to continue. You were falling apart with every step, but you can't stop, you can't stop now, even when all you wanted was to collapse and sob from the pain but they can get to you any time soon, you need to push yourself.

"(Name)..." You heard your name being whispered, head snapped toward the sound, breath caught in your throat. You kept moving but stumbling through the dim corridor, blood dripping with each step. Your mind was so scrambled, so loud with thoughts you could barely tell what was real anymore. "(Name)...!" Louder this time. Familiar. That voice—so achingly familiar.

Your eyes widened. "Telemachus...?" you breathed, your voice cracking as your eyes slightly lit up with hope, you turned around, spun in place, desperate to find where it came from.

"(Name)!" Your knees nearly buckled, gripping the wall for support. The voice echoed again, bouncing in your skull, and tears stung your eyes. You wanted to believe it. Gods, you wanted to believe it was him.

"Where are you?!" you cried out, almost delirious, scanning every corner. You were trembling now, your legs too heavy to carry you any further, your hand smeared blood against the stone as you dragged yourself along the wall, heart racing with every beat that screamed his name.

You kept calling for the male, but he kept repeating your name, you know its his voice however you're starting to doubt if it's him. "(name)..."

"Please come out already!" voice breaking, gripping the corner of the wall like it could hold you up. Your hands trembling, knees ready to give out. "Please... I’m tired," you whispered, sliding down the cold wall as your body finally surrendered. "I don’t want to do this anymore..."

Then came the voice again. "(Name)... I’m here." Your breath hitched. You let your eyes drop, and for a moment it was like Telemachus was holding you—like his voice wrapped around your aching ribs, comforting. "I’m here... You're safe now." You leaned into that sound.

Your lips tremble to a weak smile, Maybe... It's finally done, he's here now. Maybe all of this would finally end. Maybe he did come back to you—just like he promised.

...

Your eyes sprang open, a sharp pierce pushed against your stomach. You were met by the same pair of eyes that is just like yours, the sharpness deepened as the pain finally made its way to your senses. You gasped but didn't scream, your throat closed up as you stared down at yourself.

There was blood. So much blood. You looked down at the crimson spreading from your center, staining the fabric of your chiron, seeping between your fingers, shakily reaching to grasp the ones that held the blade. Your fingers touched skin as you looked up, "..Mom..?" Your voice barely made it past your lips. You blinked, you didn't want to believe it, but yet you weren't surprised.

She didn't answer, you gasped again, pain now fully blooming inside you, tearing through your insides like fire. Your knees gave out and you dropped to the floor, the blade still lodged in you. Blood starting to spread, "W-Why…"

She still hadn’t looked at you. Her face was tilted down, her hair falling freely over her shoulders like a curtain—something you had never seen her wear before. It framed her face so eerily yet beautiful in a way, you felt as if you were looking in a mirror. A mirror with no reflection behind the glass.

Slowly she raised her gaze, finally meeting your own. She knelt beside you—so quiet, so weightless that it was almost cruel. The face that met yours was not of rage or madness yet. It was silent. So quiet it made you shake harder. She looked like you. Exactly like you. Only colder. Lifeless and stripped out of everything that made you human.

"I'm sorry" She said lifelessly, you stared at her disbelief, she said with no weight that it sounded like a joke.

Lips parting you said "Sorry..?"

She stared at your eyes, "This is only fair."

Your blood ran colder than your skin. "Fair..? How is this fair!?" The words tore from your throat. Every breath you took stabbed your chest as you sobbed in pain, "Why are you doing this?! Why—why.." you stumbled. "Why are you hurting me, mother..."

Something flickered then she finally snapped. "This is your fault. You ruined my life!" The scream struck you like another blow, this time to the heart. You flinched, she was shaking, fists clenched, teeth gritted as she leaned to you, you backed away further to the wall even though there was no more space.

A choking silence first came before she spoke, "Do you have any idea what I went through because of you. Because of your bastard of a father?" Her voice became quiet again but harder than her yell. "Any idea of the pain and suffering you've brought me?" she snapped, her voice shattering the air like glass. Her grip tightened around your shoulders, pushing you harshly against the hard wall. "And to make it worse—you just had to look exactly like me." She scoffs while you flinch, eyes wide.

"But worse than that," she hissed through her teeth, "you had his spirit. That fire. That wonder. That same blind defiance that ruined me!" You blinked through the blur of tears. It was true—she didn't look like you, you looked like her.

"It’s unfair," she whispered hoarsely. "So unfair. I didn’t ask for this life. I didn’t ask for you. The gods—" her voice broke, trembling—"they cursed me with a daughter who would grow up with the life they stole from me!" You didn't know what to you say, but your heart burned, burned with guilt and realization as to why your mother this way. "You too caught the eye of a royal. But I wasn't admired unlike you" You bit your lip.

"I had dreams too," she spat, voice rising, shaking you now like she could shake the past out of you. "Did you know that?! I had plans, a future, hopes that were mine! Until he—"

She stopped but continued quickly. "Until I was taken against my will," she said, quietly now. "by your father." Your breath caught, eyes widened in disbelief, the world tilted. "I didn't choose this, I didn't choose to have you."

Your voice tried to speak, to say something even if you didn't know what to say, you could barely even breathe.

"But they wanted you, you know?" your mother said coldly, stepping back, her eyes trailing down to the blood seeping from your wound. "Your father… oh, he really wanted you, he needed a daughter, he said." Her tone dripped with bitterness. She let go of your shoulders harshly as if your touch left burns. "But I refused," she went on. "I refused to let you be a symbol of their love, or peace, or whatever lie they painted it as. I may hate you for existing—but letting you live a life of comfort while I rotted in silence from your birth?" Her voice cracked. "I refused. I'd rather have you suffer with me."

You were trembling now, lips parted to speak, stuttering from both the pain and fear. "I-I didn’t know any of this... and if I did—if I knew what he did to you—I wouldn’t want to be near him. I wouldn’t even—"

"Stop the crap, (Name)." Her voice cold like ice. You flinched. "You say that now, but I saw it," she sneered. "The way you lit up around the palace. The way you clung to that boy. His mother. You loved this place. You loved being close to royal. Don’t lie to me."

Tears were pooling down your face. "He wasn’t my father…and.. I didn't plan to-" you whispered, like it could save you.

She tilted her head. "But you still craved what he would have given you. A palace. A title. A dream.. Isn't that why you whore'd yourself to the prince?" She leaned closer, her face mere inches from yours as your body trembled beneath the heavy weight of everything—your blood, the pain, and the truth she had dug into you more deeply than the blade itself. Your lips shivered as tears blurred your vision.

"No... you got it wrong..." you whispered through your choked sobs. Your voice was too weak to convince anyone, let alone the one who had just stabbed you. She didn’t answer. She just stared. Looked down at you like you were something pitiful, distorted, something like unwanted. Her expression held nothing soft, only an exhausted disgust. But you looked up at her anyway, the way a child would. Your lips trembled again, and your gaze held no defiance like she accused you to have—eyes just guilt. Guilt as if to say: I’m sorry.

She was just like you once. Bright-eyed, maybe even joyful. With dreams that were meant to be more than what the faith allowed her. You saw it now—how the faith she once had was sucked dry by cruelty. It wasn’t her fault. But it wasn’t yours either. But still, you felt like it was, like existing was a mistake, like your dreams were thievery from a woman who had nothing left.

"I’m sorry," you whimpered quietly. Again, and again. "I’m sorry." She didn’t answer, but you saw her shoulders rise and fall unevenly. Her breath also shaking now.

You winced as her hand started to move. You thought she would pull the blade out—but instead, she gripped it tighter. "You don’t have to, please." you croaked, your voice barely audible anymore. You didn't fear death, you said not to convince but to maybe give her a chance to rethink. You were exhausted through a point acceptance was telling you.

Silence. A long, breathless silence.

And then by your surprise… she let go. Her fingers slipped from the hilt, leaving the blade inside you. Not out of mercy, but out of something she couldn’t name. Her hands fell limp at her sides, trembling. She stared at you for a long time. Her eyes weren’t glassy, nor furious anymore—they were unreadable just like always before.

She stared at you—this time you can see a hint of fear as if she was scared, gasping heavily as she stared at your now broken and bloody state. Her hands were shaking with your blood staining her skin, exchanging shaky looks between you—and the evidence.

For a second, you saw her try reaching for you but flinched away like ashamed, she swallowed intensely before her hands gripped your arms again, and you winced, too weak to resist.

"W-where are we going?" She dragged you across the corridor, your body too limp to fight, you were pulled into the old weapon chamber—the cold metal scent of steel and dust crawling in your throat. She sat you against a stone pillar, "Mother... Please..." You stumbled, it was diabolical for you to still call her mother, begging her in a way as if she wasn't evil.

She tried not to pay at you. Despite your tears fell freely, quietly, she couldn't look at you—not when you're looking at her with the last bit of hope still hanging in your eyes.

She stood. Your eyes meeting for very last time. "You were a good kid." She started, you stared at her with your eyes blinking a tear. That was the first time she ever praised you. "I'm sorry you had to be mine." She concluded.

When she turned back, you could only watch her leave. Leave you to rot. Leave you alone. You didn’t want to believe this was your mother—but at the same time, she hadn’t given you a reason not to. So you stayed quiet as she stepped out of the room. And the door closed.

You leaned against the wall, clutching your abdomen, your vision growing blurrier by the second. You didn’t know if this was what dying felt like. But you didn’t want to die like this. Not this way.

You still hadn’t seen him. He still hadn’t come back.

You didn’t want your corpse to be the last thing he saw of you.

At this point, he was only the one you have left.

You didn’t know if you could hold on anymore, so you curled into yourself—anything to feel a little less alone.

Your lips quivered, barely moving as your breath trembled out of you. You pressed your bloodied hand to your side and mumbled low—almost a whisper not even the gods could hear. "Please… any god listening… don’t let it end like this…" Tears streamed down your face as your head leaned weakly against the cold wall. "I’m scared…" It was soft, like a child's voice in the dark. "I don’t want to die here… not like this…" Your eyes fluttered as you forced out one more breath, your voice barely reaching the still air. "Telemachus… please… come back..."

You looked around the dark room, lit only by a faint flicker of light that barely touched the corners. Your breaths were shaky as you scanned the space—every shadow, every shape.

Weapons lined the walls and ground, hidden in cloth—some blades poked through the fabric, their steel catching the slightest of light.

From the way they were stashed, it wasn’t hard to guess—you recognize them as the weapons owned by the suitors. You swallowed the tightening around your throat, if the bleeding didn’t end you first, they surely would. You were trapped in a room filled with things that are made to kill.

Desperate, you reached for the edge of a torn tablecloth nearby, ripping a thick strip of it with trembling hands. You wrapped it tightly around your wound, pressing down hard despite the aching pain. You bit into your lower lip, stifling a cry.

Then—footsteps, multiple of them drawing closer.

"No..no....no..!" Your blood ran cold. Your eyes widened as you looked toward the door, panic rising. With the little strength you had left, you dragged yourself to a shadowed corner, crawling to the only place that won't bite your back. Among the abandoned weapons, you spotted a small blade partially hidden between two larger ones. Your fingers closed around it, slipping it into the folds of your clothes. You held your breath.

The door burst open, crashing against the stone wall as a group of suitors scrambled in, breathes tagged, fear carving into their eyes. "He’s back!" one of them panted, wild-eyed. "The old king—he’s alive!" Another suitor slammed the door behind them, his hand shaking. "That bastard of a beggar! I didn’t know it was him—how the hell were we supposed to know that was Odysseus in disguise?!"

Their words blew you into realization. You froze, your chest tightening. The beggar from earlier?… the old man in the garden… Your eyes widened, breath caught between your ribs. That was… the king?

"Damn, he’s more cunning than I assumed," one muttered, pacing furiously. "While we were busy plotting, he hid our weapons inside this room." Just as he reached for one of the cloth-covered racks, his hand pulled back the linen that only to reveal you, curled into the corner, bloodied, breathing hard.

"Well, well," one of them grinned with amusement. "Look what the gods dragged back into our arms."

"Hello little lamb," another chuckled, cruelly. "Seems faith’s been having a little too much fun with you." You tried to shrink farther into the stone wall as one stepped closer, his boots heavy against the floor. Your hair was the only thing about you that was free as it was soak with your sweat and grime, while your once-white chiton stained with deep red and ruined to your trembling frame. Your cheeks were smeared with dried blood, a dark red result from the violence already done to you.

"Blood looks good on you," one of them sneered, bending down just slightly, close enough that you could feel the heat of his breath. "We should put some more on you, yeah?"

Another one chimed in mockingly, voice almost sing-song, the laughter that followed was grotesque, and it shook something in your chest. Bait, they’d called you. Bait. Drawing a blade from the rack, "We’ll use your dying flesh as a shield." Still, you didn’t speak. You could only glared, your eyes piercing despite the tears that welled. That only made them laugh harder. "I find it hard to believe," one sneered as he tightened his grip on a sword, "that the sharpest of kings left his armory unlocked."

"So what?" another spat, raising his weapon. "Now that we’ve armed ourselves… let’s make the bastard rot." The tension in the room sharpened, and then his gaze turned back to you.

"But first—get rid of this already-rotting one."He stepped forward, blade raised, and you felt your heart drop, breath catching. You braced. "Behind you!" He turned too late. A spear drove through his back with sickening precision. As blood smeared—the holder pulling back the spear out.

The room fell into stunned silence. Your widen eyes looked up slowly, your weak iris shakily lifted to the man's body as it dropped to floor.

The shadow behind him slowly reveal from the dim light, their features revealing by the second as your heart stopped, the familiar sense of his presence made the pain numb for a second. Telemachus. He swinged the spear to his hand as an invisible yet strong presence followed behind his reveal. Your brows furrowed low as trembled in pain. Despite the dim light and the chaos around him, Telemachus had found you. His eyes locked onto yours, and something in him broke at the sight of you—battered, bloodied, barely holding on. "(Name)!" he called, desperate, running toward you.

But just before he could reach you, a suitor lunged, grabbing you by the arm. You cried out as he dragged you in front of him, locking his arm around your throat, the cold kiss of a blade pressing once again to your skin, making you hiss. "Not another step, boy!" the man barked, breathing heavy. "Or she gets it."

Telemachus froze, his sword still raised. The fury in his gaze burned like a band, barely held back by his clenched jaw. "Let her go," he said with a voice both sharp and trembling. "Let her go, and I ensure you will be spared."

The man laughed bitterly. "Spare us? After what your father did? No, prince—we know what fate waits for us." His grip on you tightened, his blade pressing deeper until you gasped.

"I don’t want to hurt you," Telemachus warned, stepping forward slightly. His eyes flicked to yours again, and something in them softened—only for rage to return when he saw you wince. "But if you hurt her again, I swear to the gods, I will not hesitate."

Another suitor stepped forward now, weapon drawn, voice snarling. "You think you can save her and fight us all, boy?" he spat. "You can’t even protect her at the first place. We have your little girl."

"We have your weakness," another added, circling. "And that’s how we win. We gut you first, then let the rest of the blood dry on her bones or the other way. Either way none is spared."

"Brothers! We can still defeat the king if we all attack the prince!" Your eyes grew wide. The men started lurging to Telemachus as you were still held back—your lips shunned as the man behind you covered your mouth. "Capture him he's our greatest chance!" Menalaus yelled, as Telemachus roughly hold them back, he dodged the blades flying towards him as he striked back, "Get off me! GET OFF ME!" He yelled.

With what little strength you had left, you gripped the blade hidden beneath your tattered chiton, the metal slick with your own blood. Heart pounding, you opened your mouth and bit hard into the hand gripping your face—so hard that the sharp taste of iron flooded your tongue. The man yelped, jerking back in surprise. You didn’t hesitate. You spun, shoving your body forward, and drove the blade into the side of his neck. His scream tore through the chamber as he collapsed, twitching.

You stared for a moment, your chest heaving—unsure if it was shock, or just the weight of what you’d done. But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. You yanked the blade free and turned just in time to see another suitor charging towards Telemachus' blind spot. Without thinking, you ran and shoved the blade up into his throat, his blade almost reaching the prince. His eyes bulged as he dropped, lifeless.

Telemachus turned at the sound, his sword mid-swing, eyes wide when he saw you standing over the second body, soaked with mixed blood but standing. His eyes met yours, something tender flickering in the chaos.

"You came back," you whispered, cracked and breathless. He exhaled, jaw clenched. "I promised, didn’t I?" But before the moment could hold, a strong arm yanked you back by the waist. "NO!" Telemachus shouted, panic surging through his voice as he lunged, only to be tackled by two other men. His blade clattered to the floor as they forced him down.

Menelaus held you close, his breath hot and foul in your ear. "Got them," he spat with a grin, and the sound of it made Telemachus’s face fall.

The next second passed like a fever dream. Your heartbeat jumped as an arrow tore through Menelaus—the man holding you hostage. Though your back was to him, you felt it before you saw it: the snap of the air, the wet splatter of blood painting your skin again. You swore if you had the energy to care, the mixture of your own blood and countless others coating your body would have made you sick. But right now, all you could think about was not dying. And you were scared—terrified—that you wouldn’t even achieve that.

The arrow had lodged deep into Menelaus’s neck. He gasped as the blood poured, his grip on you loosening. But your body, sore and broken from everything you’d endured, lacked the strength to catch yourself.

Telemachus and the suitors who were holding him down witnessed this all, they stared in horror as the arrow was now buried deep in his throat. Odysseus stood at the far end of the chamber, revealing himself from the pool of bodies and shadow, with blood already staining his hands, eyes spiked with no more spark.

The scene made the remaining suitors also lose their grip on the prince in great fear—enough for Telemachus to get out of their grasp and run to you.

The brown-haired male caught you just in time before you met the ground. "I’ve got you," he breathed, voice shaking, pulling you into his arms. Your eyes widened as you finally felt the familiar touch you had been longing for, you couldn't help but finally calm down. You're whole body despite in pain was tensed, alert of every single thing as a moment ago you thought you were alone. Your eyes began to swell up; however a slight indication of fear and pain still remained.

Telemachus pressed your head gently against his shoulder, but his breath caught when he felt how your body tensed. Gods, he could imagine how scared you must be.

Intuitively, he brought both you and himself away from the body as the king came closer into the room. Telemachus, who was still unaware of his father’s rampage, shielded you away as he watched the man reveal himself through the dim light.

Odysseus stood in front of the body that had his arrow pierced into it. "M-mercy," a suitor stammered, dropping his weapon, stumbling.

"Mercy?" he repeated, glaring at the man. "Mercy?!" He took another step. "My mercy has long since drowned." The bowstring pulled tight.

"It died to bring me home." He aimed at another man, trembling at the edge of the room. "And as long as you're around…" Thunk. Another suitor fell, arrow through the chest.

"My family's fate is left unknown." He stopped, eyes scanning the room with raw hatred. "You plotted to kill my son…" He gestured to Telemachus, who held you tightly against him.

"Viciously tortured that girl!" Telemachus blinked, eyes darting down to you—realizing he meant you. "You planned to rape my wife!" Odysseus’s voice grew louder, emphasizing the word wife with full grit.

"All of you are going to die!" he growled as he fired again—fast, brutal, unforgiving. The suitors scattered like rats, but it didn’t matter. One by one, they dropped dead, blood pooling on the stone walls and ground. Telemachus could only maintain his grasp on you, shielding you from the carnage. His hand pressed to your side, trying to stop the bleeding, but his eyes never left his father—not once—as Odysseus exacted a wrath twenty years in the making.

It continued, and the smell lingered as screams could be heard—begs and last breaths. "You’ve filled my heart with hate, all of you, who have done me wrong…" he turned to face the men. "This will be your fate!" he declared, holding up the head.

Cries echoed. Everything felt like a horror movie as the king himself marked his presence through this nightmare. Telemachus hitched a breath as he turned back to you slowly. You were still in his arms, trembling, barely conscious. He cupped your cheek as blood roared in your ears.

The king was home. And his homecoming had painted the walls red.

"Tele..?" Barely a full name, your voice cracked, the stab in your side had finally caught up to you, forcing a cough past your lips.

"(Name)... (Name)." Telemachus called, his voice trembling. He sank to the ground, cradling you into his arms with desperation, his eyes locked onto your side, the bloodied cloth soaked through and stiff with dry red. His breath hitched.

"I missed you."

He chuckles a sob, "I missed you too. So much." He pecked the top of your hair. "Don’t move. Don’t say anything yet—just, please, hold on," he begged, his voice rising with panic. He looked so young then, so unlike the prince people spoke of. Just a boy, terrified.

Your eyes fluttered, unfocused but still searching for him. You raised your bloodied hand—barely—and he caught it immediately, intertwining his fingers with yours gently as if that alone could keep you tethered.

"Tele… you're back," you whispered weakly.

"Yes. Yes, I’m here, (Name). I’m here! I’m so sorry I was too late, but I’m here now, okay? I’m not leaving you again!" He pressed his forehead gently to yours for a second, breath shaking.

You tried to speak, but your words were hazy. "I-I waited for you…"

He swallowed, holding back the sob building in his chest. "I know. I know you did," he whispered. "And I’m never letting you wait alone again. Never."

You blinked slowly. "It hurts…"

"I know. Gods, I know." He took a steadying breath. "But Eurycleia—she’ll know what to do. She’ll help you. I just—I have to get you to her." He pulled you closer, gently gathering you in his arms. Your body felt too light, too still, and that terrified him more than anything. As he stood, you whimpered softly from the shift, but your arms stayed around him, just holding on.

"Please… hold on," he whispered under his breath as he walked, fast as he dared. "Just stay with me. Be strong. I’ve got you."

You leaned into him, your eyes barely open, head resting against his chest. You heard the tremble in his voice and tried to speak—tried to reassure him—but your throat burned. Still, you managed a whisper.

"I’m… trying." You tried.

He sobbed then, silently, pressing his cheek to the top of your head as he made his way through the blood-stained halls, whispering again and again: "You’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay. Just hold on. Please, just hold on."

"Guards! Call for nurse Eurycleia, or the Iatros—the healers! Anyone!" Telemachus shouted, his voice sharp, cracked with panic. The men quickly obeyed, startled by the desperation in the prince’s command.

Odysseus turned at the sound, gaze falling upon his son with tear-stained eyes and the girl who had smiled at him with such unexpected kindness not long ago. He hadn’t realized you were talking about Telemachus—he hadn’t known you meant his son. A tug pulled at his chest, quiet and painful. You were full of life only hours ago. Now you lay nearly limp in his son's arms, barely clinging on.

"Will she be okay?" Odysseus called out. Telemachus turned slightly, eyes flicking to the father he hadn’t seen in years. "She must! I won’t accept it!" he snapped, and with that, he turned forward again, his steps picking up pace.

And for every step, his heart screamed. Please not like this, not her, not now. His arms tightened around you as if trying to hold your soul in place. I didn’t come this far to lose you. You’re not allowed to slip away. The fear wasn’t just choking him—it was devouring him whole. It wasn’t just blood on his hands now, it was the weight of time, of regret, of love he hadn’t had the chance to protect properly. Not until now.

Every step toward infirmary felt like walking the edge of a cliff—one slip and you could be gone. And Telemachus couldn’t let that happen.

He wouldn't. "Your highness, we’ll take it from here. Please—wait outside," one of the healers urged gently, already beginning to gather tools and direct the others.

Telemachus didn’t move. His arms stayed wrapped around your body, your blood staining his skin. His voice came out cracked and trembling, "She’ll be alright, right? (Name)… She’s going to be fine. She’s strong, one of the strongest people I know—she has to be, she—she—" His voice broke into a whisper, barely holding itself together.

"Your highness," another healer said, firmer now, "we will do everything we can. But please—we must work quickly."

They reached for you again. This time, Telemachus let them take you, but his grip lingered—fingers refusing to part as if releasing you might make you vanish altogether. When he finally let go, it was slow, reluctant. His hand brushed against your skin one last time before slipping away, trembling.

As they lifted you from his arms, his breath caught in his throat. You were being pulled from him, and all he could do was watch.

You turned your head weakly, blood still on your lips, your eyes struggling to stay open. "Tele…" you breathed, your voice barely audible. One arm reached toward him.His hand reached back but before either of you could touch, the doors closed between you.

He froze. Staring blankly at the now shut door, tears rolled down his cheeks quietly. He stood there in the silence, the image of you being carried away burned behind his eyes. And then—he felt it. A hand, heavy and warm, resting on his shoulder. He turned slowly, Odysseus stood beside him, blood still smeared across his arms and face, his gaze fixed on the door with a quiet expression.

The father and son stood there, side by side. No words passed between them.

And then, Telemachus broke. He collapsed forward, wrapping his arms around his father, shoulders shaking as a sob tore out of his throat. Odysseus didn’t flinch. His hand moved to the back of his son’s head, steadying him, holding him. He said nothing—because nothing needed to be said. They just stood there, in silence and sorrow, now the one waiting behind the door.

...

The emptiness in silence had gained a fear into you. Every time it occurs, it always lingers disturbingly, that can make your skin crawl. It was never good, always a warning. Every time it showed itself, something bad quickly followed. Always.

And right now, everything was quiet. No voices. No footfalls. No screams. Just...nothing.

You didn’t know if this was death, a dream, or something between. The darkness that surrounded you wasn’t empty—nor was it heavy, it wasn’t even cold. Mostly it only felt like it was just there.

It felt like you were levitating, or stuck in a place with no time, no weight, but for some reason fear hadn't reached you here.

Your mind was blank for the first few while, but soon the emptiness had started to pervade with your collecting thoughts.

Maybe it was because it started with your reflection, but slowly your thoughts had reminded you of her. You remembered her hands, the blade she held, her voice sounding human for the first time, even the way her eyes stared at you with pure enmity and sympathy..?. It almost made you forget that this was your mother.

A mother, who was supposedly love you, protect you—you didn't quite understand.

Growing up, you knew there was supposed to be a father, you saw other kids with them however you never had the courage to ask your mother about yours, so your mind never generated an idea of a father, you never thought that was the reason as to why your mother wasn't a mother to you.

Now you wondered, if you even deserve to live, knowing how you were conceived, how faith had brought you where you are. You start to consider maybe you really did deserve it. It made you wonder, just a bit, if this was what she wanted all along. For you to disappear. For you to bleed. For you to suffer just enough to make it even.

You recalled all your moments with her, the times you never stood beside her instead stood just a few distances behind. From the front it wasn't obvious but to where you were standing, you knew something was wrong, just never had the gut to ask why. You always noticed the distance but tried to think nothing about it.

Maybe that’s why you’ve always been drawn to art—not just for its beauty, but because it’s one of the only kinds of creation you’ve known to be made with love. Because the first artist in your life—the one who made you—crafted you out of pain, and then resented you for existing.

But what does everything about this even mean? You didn’t know. You didn’t want to. You could barely think beyond it anyway now when a sound had reached your ears. It was faint, like slowly starting to form familiar, there was a dull ringing again. Like water in your ears.

Maybe it was the sound of your own blood still moving, or maybe just what silence becomes when it presses too long.

For a while, you were distracted by the undefined sound that you couldn't espy, since all of your sight right now was blank and only your brain picturing your thoughts. However second by second you could start to feel warmth for the first time, feeling it first where the side of your face was supposed to be.

Slowly you began to feel the warm sensation stronger as it brought you back to the feeling of consciousness.

Your eyes stayed closed at first but slowly you were able to peek—the sun shine being the first thing to sight as you blink a couple of times. The light crawled across your cheeks and eyelids, warm enough to remind you you were still here. Still breathing.

You took a breath, you didn’t mean to. It just came. And gods, it hurts. It hurts like your lungs haven’t worked in years, like this was your first breath after holding it underwater.

And the numb empty feeling from earlier now gone as you felt your head ache—your entire body felt so so heavy, like your nerves didn’t know whether to hurt or give up. You stirred a little from all of this sudden presence of pain as your eyelids flattered and let out a faint groan as you barely turned your head.

Your neck resisted, your muscles weak, but you managed it, slowly, shapes began to blur into view. Pale walls. Drapes. A window cracked slightly open. And that—that familiar smell of herbs and linen.

You knew this place, the infirmary.

You blinked, then again. The ache of your body pulled you back into the present, despite the attached confusion in it. You tried to remember everything that had happened—how you got here, why your side burned like it had been torn open. But every time you tried to pull a thread, your head screamed back at you, making you wince and groan.

You then heard a sharp gasped echo across the room, you squinted through the brightness, vision still struggling to focus until it became clear a little. Nurse Eurycleia. Who stood near the doorway, eyes wide, hand over her mouth as if she’d seen a ghost. For a second, she didn’t move—just stared, frozen in place.

You furrowed your brow. Or at least tried to, the two of you quite frankly stared at each other with opposing looks on your faces. You tried murmuring something out though it seems like only your thoughts could speak right now.

Without another second wasted the older woman gasped loudly, "Your.. Your Highness—!" she shouted before spinning and bolting from the room.

Your lips parted slightly, dazed and lost. Your highness? Then of course, your eyes slightly grew, Telemachus.

...

"Are you sure she’s awake?" Telemachus stumbled over the words, eyes wide as if afraid they’d vanish the moment they were spoken. Despite the reluctance in his voice, he was already two steps ahead of the older nurse.

"Yes! Yes—I heard her groan. Twice!" Eurycleia said breathlessly, her urgency bubbling with hope and disbelief.

Telemachus let out a shaky breath as they neared the door, one hand hovering just above the handle. He hesitated for half a second, afraid of what he might see—afraid it would hurt all over again. But the moment passed. He slowly pushed the door open.

There you were. On the bed. Breathing. Eyes barely open. Fragile, but alive.

Alive, Telemachus stared, frozen in the doorway, his throat closing, He didn’t realize he was shaking until he gripped the edge of the door for support.

Nurse Eurycleia saw this as her hand came to soothe his arm—a quiet nudge that he needed. "I'll leave you two be it." Her voice soft.

Telemachus nodded once, barely, as she stepped out.

Telemachus approached slowly, his hands were shaking and fisted closed, as the room was bright with the morning light now, spilling onto the bed, casting a soft warmth against your skin.

He hears you breathed out—slowly your gaze lifted weakly, and your eyes found his. For a moment, neither of you said a word.

Then he knelt beside you, one hand gently reaching to brush a strand of hair from your face. His fingers trembled as he feels your skin.

"You’re awake," he whispered. His voice cracked, tears starting to build up.

Telemachus sat beside the bed cautiously, as if you're fragile glass that might shatter from anything, his soft gaze didn't leave your presence even a second as his breathing was careful, shoulders trembling slightly—like he was holding himself back. You could tell he was doing it for your sake and your flatter from this detail.

"Telemachus...?" you finally whispered, voice brittle.

Hearing your voice call his name made him sniffle, his head raising just enough to meet your eyes. "(name)..?" He called yours.

Your brows furrowed, eyes softening as you studied the lines on his face. "Why are you crying?" You teased.

He let out a broken chuckle, his head hanging low as his shoulders gave in, you could feel his weight rest gently against the edge of your bed frame, forehead touching the blanket near your lap, his hands gripped the sheets tightly.

"I thought I'd lost you, (name)." he whispered, voice slight muffled from the sheets. "I thought I was never going to hear you again, your voice, your smile, you."

Your hand, shaky and pale, lifted to his hair, threading your fingers into it gently, brushing the strands back. His shoulders stiffen at the touch before relaxing slowly, melting into you naturally.

"I'm here, Tele... I'm here," you said, voice still barely above a breath.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to rest his cheek against you, breathing quite unevenly. The tears came freely now—his hand sliding up to intertwine with yours.

And for a moment, the world went quiet again. But this time, it wasn't terrifying. It didn't bring you fear but instead it was peace. It was safe. A smile made its way to your tired lips.

You gave a faint, tired smile. "You look awful, you know, heavens.. have you been taking care of yourself?" you commented.

He let out a quiet laugh between sobs. "You nearly die, and you're still honest as ever. Good to know you're still the (name) I know"

You chuckled weakly, though the effort made your chest ache. "Just trying to balance things out."

He pulled back slightly, brushing his sleeve across his face before looking at you. "How are you feeling?"

You took a long pause, eyes drifting to the ceiling as if trying to find an answer that didn’t sound like 'everything hurts'. "Numb. Heavy. Like I've been asleep for years and only a part of me actually woke up."

His smile faded a little as his eyes lowered. "That's... expected," he murmured.

Your gaze returned to him, studying his expression. Something was off.

"How long was I out?" Telemachus hesitated. You tilted your head, brows raising.

"Telemachus?"

He swallowed. "...You’ve been in a coma for two weeks now.."

Your mouth parted slightly. "Two weeks?" you echoed, eyes blinking slowly as you brought your other hand to rest your chest.

He nodded. "It was the longest two weeks of my life." His voice cracked again, just a little. "I sat here every day. Talking to you. Hoping you'd... move, or blink, or even just—" He stopped himself. His fists clenched slightly on the sheets. "I would've given anything to hear you breathe differently."

You stared at Telemachus as his fingers against yours slightly tightened, no plans of letting you go again.

A small smile painted your lips, "I guess this makes us equal then," You started, Telemachus tilted his head at you. "Now you know how it feels waiting for someone, dummy." You said.

Telemachus pouted, nudging your hand. "Hey, I didn’t know when you’d come back. I was waiting here hopelessly, alright?"

"You think I knew when you were coming back either?" you retorted sarcastically, a faint huff leaving your lips. "I didn’t get a schedule or anything."

He tilted his head in surrender, his fingers still wrapped gently around yours. "You’re right… gods, I wonder how my mother survived that."

"I asked myself that same question," you murmured, your voice calmer now. "Your mother was by my side when you were out. Being with her highness was really comforting especially since you resemble her so much."

Telemachus smiled faintly, looking down at your joined hands. "I’m glad," he whispered. "I knew she would love you. I mean there's no way anyone wouldn't." He said.

The warmth of his words brought a gentle smile to your lips, but you couldn't help your eyes to lower, as you thought about her.

There was still so much you hadn’t processed yet. Your gaze faltered, lowering slightly to the sheets.

Telemachus noticed, but didn’t press. Instead, he leaned forward just a little, exhaling with a nervous laugh. "Gosh… I hope I don’t get drafted into another war like my father and make you wait twenty years."

You let out a breath—somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "Don't Jinx it."

You didn’t know what to say at first. So you just reached forward and cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing gently under his eye. "You shouldn’t cry this much. It's gonna ruin your pretty face."

He let out a shaky laugh, shaking his head as he tried to hide his growing blush. "You’re unbelievable."

"And you're easy to tease" you teased back, smiling.

For a second, it almost felt normal.

Then your expression softened, to ask a question that you wanted to ask since earlier. "Hey… who helped? I mean… the blood loss. I know it must’ve been bad. Who do I thank for keeping me here with you?"

Telemachus froze. Your smile faltered slightly, nervous. "What’s wrong?"

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes darted slightly, like he was trying to find the best way to soften something sharp.

"It... it was from your mother."

Silence. You blinked. Not wide-eyed. Not gasping. Just staring. "...Huh?" It came out sounding confused.

He swallowed. "We couldn’t find anyone in the palace with a blood match. Not even the servants or guards. We tried everything. And time was running out. The nurses almost lost hope until, your mother showed up.."

"She offered her blood," he said, quiet. "Voluntarily."

You fell silent again, as you stared at him blankly, notably dubious on his statement. Telemachus opened his lips to say something, stopped. And opened to say, "She confessed what happened between the two of you." You blinked.

Your head tilted to the side, throat tighten and your mind spiraling. It didn’t make sense. You were so confused. "Is she—what.. is she—?" Telemachus seemed to puzzle out what you wanted to ask before you could complete it yourself. "No... She said she would lend her blood for you—on the condition that she could leave Ithaca afterward."

You turned your gaze away then, letting it settle on some quiet place in the room. "We didn’t have much choice before your condition got worse," he added. "So... we agreed."

Another silence followed, hanging longer than the one before it. Telemachus leaned closer, careful. "I’m sorry, (Name). What she did… was wrong. And if you want, we could—"

"No… I—uh…" you exhaled slowly, voice faltering before catching again.

"Let her be."

His face tensed, unsure. "You mean…?"

You looked at him again. Not angry. Not bitter. Just very tired.

"I found out everything. My past. What happened. What she did. And what she lost," you said, softly. "I think… I think I spent so long trying to be seen that I forgot I was just... trying."

Your voice trembled a little, not from crying, but from the weight of all those years. "I tried to understand her, even when she shut me out. Even when she looked at me like I was the very thing that ruined her. And maybe I was. Maybe she couldn’t stand to look at me because I was all that was left of the love she lost. A face that reminded her of a different life. One that died."

Telemachus just listened. Quiet, still. Letting you say it.

"She had the power to take me out of this world, Tele. So easily. And she did try but she spared me. I don't know why she chose to save me now, maybe it had a beneficial side but I can't blame her for it." You sighed softly, your thumb absently brushing his knuckle.

"I’m not really her daughter, not in the way your mother is to you. I’m just a reflection of her grief. Her faith and shame. I don’t think she ever asked for me… and I don’t think I ever asked to be a reminder of something she couldn’t heal from."

You paused. "So… it’s only fair. To let her go. Maybe this way, she’ll finally be free. Maybe she’ll be happier—starting again, somewhere where my face doesn’t follow her. Somewhere her past can’t chase her anymore." You looked up at Telemachus again, eyes quietly soft. "And maybe that’s the greatest thing I can do for her in return for ruining her."

Another silence followed. Telemachus stared at you, stunned—a quiet ache blooming in his chest. He always knew you were kind. But this? This kind of grace? It hurt, gods, it hurt to even hear you say all of this.

You shouldn’t have to be the one to forgive. You shouldn’t be the one offering peace, not after everything.

Yet you still found a way to forgive.

Your eyes lifted to meet his again. This time, they were clearer—crystals forming at the edges, trembling with held-back tears.

"But hey," you whispered, voice tight. "At least… something of her will always be in me now, right?"

You tried to smile. But the tremble in your lips gave way to a quiet, broken sob. "I’ll carry a part of her... and maybe that’s enough for me." It was the way you said it. Soft, cracked, but full of meaning. Like it was your own form of mourning—one without anger, built from understanding.

And that honestly broke him. However he felt like he fell in love with you all over again.

Ever since you woke up, the Prince of Ithaca has not—and I mean it—he REFUSES to leave your side. Sure, a few nurses may have snitched that even before you opened your eyes, he was practically glued to your bedside. They swore he slept sitting up, arms folded on the edge of the bed, muttering things like "Just five more minutes." whenever someone tried to drag him off to his royal duties. 

Now? He’s made it his duty to hover over you like a very devoted, very anxious, very clingy puppy. 

Sitting up to pour yourself a glass of water? Nope. Telemachus is already two steps ahead, tilting the cup to your lips.

Feel your hair's a mess? Don’t worry. He’s brushing it for you—surprising skilled, might you add. Where did he learn that? He mumbled something about his mother and a lot of practice on linen. Lunch? Forget feeding yourself. He insists on doing it for you. "No, no—let me. You’re still healing. What if you strain a finger?" he says with the seriousness of a seasoned general that you can't hold your laughter. 

You feel cold? Blanket. Immediately. And not just any blanket—he throws on two more, and he's already climbing into bed beside you, pulling you into his arms like a heat-seeking missile. "god forbid a man who misses his woman," he claims, deadpan, as his arms lock around you. 

You roll your eyes, but you obviously liked it. 

And the best part? Your wounds were slowly healing. The pain dulls more each day, and his clinginess becomes something you secretly look forward to. Every breath is easier, every laugh a little louder. You can now leave your bed and walk around the room, however you're still prohibited from doing anything heavy.

Honestly, at this point, it’s less you recovering and more like you watching him recover from the trauma of almost losing you. Either way, it’s soft, it's safe, and it’s exactly what you both need.

You shift in bed once He’s at your side in half a second. "What hurts? Where? Tell me."

"Telemachus, I just turned over."

"Well, next time warn me first—what if your stitches reopened?" You stare. He stares back. Dead serious. You sigh. He tucks the blanket tighter around you.

Sometimes he stares at you like you might disappear if he blinks too long. You pretend not to notice—but the moment you catch his eye and smile? He melts. Literally melts. Looks away and mutters something like, "Stop doing that," under his breath, ears turning bright red. He's so adorable. (author is banging their head as they write) 

Even Eurycleia, had to tell him, "Your Highness, if you hover any closer, you’ll be stitched to the bedframe too."

"Then stitch me, I gladly welcome that" he said without missing a beat. You’ve never seen Nurse Eurycleia deadpanned so hard. 

He reads to you, too. Though sometimes he fumbles and gets self-conscious when the words get flowery or romantic. You teased him once, and he refused to read the next chapter unless you "apologized properly." You still haven’t and he still reads to you. 

At night, when it’s just the two of you and the flicker of lamplight, just like the old days. He doesn’t say much. He just lays beside you—still careful not to press against your wounds—and holds your hand like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. Maybe it is. And sometimes, half-asleep, you hear him whisper things like, "I thought I’d lost you," or "You don’t even know how much I prayed for you to stay." or "I love you so much." You never interrupt. You just hold his hand tighter. Because if you’re honest? You didn't know either what'd you would do if you did left. 

Sure, Telemachus' technically had princely duties again now that Ithaca had a king back—but let’s be real, the only throne he was interested in was the one next to your bedside. 

Not that he forgot his parents. Of course not. You were there to watch how he now split his time between being your clingy nurse and finally getting time with his mom and dad again—something he hadn’t had in years. 

You’d watch him through the infirmary window sometimes, seated with Penelope by the courtyard, her fingers brushing his curls while he told her stories. Or laughing with Odysseus over something stupid, probably war-related, And honestly? You were so happy for him. They looked whole again. 

One Evening, Telemachus returned with that familiar boyish grin and a tray of figs you definitely didn’t ask for. He plopped on the edge of your bed, nudging your hand with one of them. "So guess what happened today?" he asked, mouth full of his own stolen fruit. "I dunno. Did you finally beat your dad in chess?" you teased. 

He groaned dramatically. "No—but almost though!" You giggled. "Really now?" He hummed, "My mom is unbeatable though, maybe cause my dad purposely loses to her." He rolled his eyes sarcastically. "He's such a simp for her." He chuckled.

You raised a brow with a sly grin. "Speaks for yourself, lover boy." Telemachus blinked. "What me?! Pfft, I am not a simp." 

"Oh?" you smirked. "Remind you who spoon-fed me lukewarm soup while whispering ‘you’re doing so well’ like I was a baby bird?" 

"I—okay that was one time." he flailed. "Two. And you tucked me in after." He covered his face. "That was for medical reasons." 

"Mhm. You and your dad are so the same." You giggled. "Must be in the genes. Simps!" He gasped. "Take that back." 

"Never. It’s in your blood." He pointed dramatically. "I should’ve let you comb your own hair this morning." You stuck out your tongue. "You’d last ten minutes before doing it anyway." He scowled with zero heat behind it, then sighed in defeat as he leaned back beside you. 

"…Okay maybe I am a dignified simp...only for you though," he muttered. 

You patted his cheek. "Sure you are, little wolf" And he let you. Because gods help him, he was. He smirked, then his tone shifted a little softer. 

"He also said something interesting." You blinked, chewing on a fig. "Interesting how?" 

"He said he met you before everything happened." You paused. "…Wait, what?"

"Yeah. He was disguised as a begger and he met you in the garden, said you were really kind to him despite his disguise." 

You blinked once. Then twice. "…Wait—wait wait wait—I'm not mistaken, right? The king… was the man back in the garden?" You nearly dropped your fig. "The suspiciously well-built old man??" 

Telemachus blinked. "That’s… an oddly specific description." You stared at him, frozen.

A slow, creeping blush bloomed across your cheeks as the realization slammed into you. The king. The king. The one you unknowingly gushed to about his own son. No wonder you felt weirdly safe with him. No wonder his voice felt familiar. He was literally Telemachus' father. 

Your eyes widened. You simped for Telemachus in front of his own father. You practically poured your heart out and the man just—listened. Silently. Like a father. Oh gosh. 

Telemachus, of course, was grinning like he’d won a game you didn’t know you were playing. He leaned in, all smugness and mischief. "Something wrong?" he asked innocently, eyes twinkling. You shook your head quickly, trying (and failing) to cool the pink radiating off your face.

"Uhhuh," you muttered, stuffing the fig into your mouth to shut yourself up. 

"Hm," he hummed, clearly enjoying this. "Interesting… ’cause he also said—" he dragged the words slowly, leaning even closer, "that you mentioned his voice was comforting." 

You froze mid-chew. "Said it reminded you of someone special. And how much you missed him." Your eyes widened with betrayal. The blush spread to your ears like wildfire. Telemachus grinned, full on now. "Looks like I’m not the only simp here." 

You groaned, smacking your palm to your face. "Shut up. I’m going to throw myself into the sea." He laughed provocatively leaning his head against your shoulder. "Please don’t. I like you alive. Simping and all." You threw a pillow at his face.

...

It was an idyllic time with Telemachus. Being with him made something in you feel whole. There was no longer threats peeking through the halls, no heaviness creeping at every corner. You spent your days beside the man you love. And the people you love—his family—they were happy too. The queen reunited with the king. Just that alone brought a strange sense of peace to your chest.

The moments felt like soft strings playing in the distance. Silence finally feels peace again.

So you shouldn’t feel so melancholy.

You’re happy. You know you are. Everything feels alright when Telemachus is there—when he’s talking, laughing, sitting close, but the second he's not in the room, when it’s just you and the stillness—the silence gets under your skin again.

Because the silence gives you space to think. And sometimes it lets you think too much.

The first days of your healing, you weren’t allowed to leave the infirmary. Nurse Eurycleia made that clear—no arguments, no sneaking out, no excuses. You didn't love it. You weren’t used to staying still in one room this long. You were always moving, doing something. But you listened.

And now, being stuck here... it's starting to get to you. It bothers you that you can't leave but the same time.. you don’t know what happens after you do leave the door.

That’s the part that scares you. You're not sure where you're supposed to go when this is over. You’re not even sure what you are anymore.

You were a handmaid. You know that. But you were her handmaid. That was the whole point. Now she’s gone. Forever may perhaps.

And it’s only hitting you now how much that meant. She left you. Alive, yes. But still alone.

And it’s confusing, because before all this, you wanted more. You wanted something different. Something for yourself and that’s what led to her anger, wasn’t it? That you wanted out. That you wanted you.

But now that you are out—now that you’re not trapped in the job that defined you, you feel… lost. You thought freedom would feel bigger than this. But all it feels like faith wasn't done with you.

…You’ve been a little quiet these past few days. Not exactly gloomy—just quieter. Telemachus noticed it when you started spending more time by the window. He’d caught you there again this morning, before the sun had fully risen, bathed in a warm orange light. You didn’t hear him come in at first, too focused on the sea, the kind of focus that wasn’t really just looking. 

"I'm already home, you know," his voice finally pulling you out of your trance. You turned, startled, then gave him that soft smile—the kind you wore when something wasn’t quite right. 

He walked over and leaned against the stone ledge beside you, shoulder brushing yours. "You're early today," you murmured, letting your head fall lightly against his shoulder. "Meetings," he sighed. "One in an hour, and more after that. It won’t end ‘til late afternoon." You tilted your head slightly to look up at him. "So, busy day?" You asked.

"Unfortunately, yeah." He pressed a small kiss to your temple. "But I’ve got an hour before all that. So I'm all yours." You smiled. 

"What a generous offering, Your Highness." He hummed. "Only for you." 

Listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat—soft and calm. Telemachus gently rested his chin atop your head, his arms wrapping fully around you. You tilted your face up toward him with a lazy smile. "Is it just me, or have you grown taller?" He chuckled, his chest raising lightly between you "Hm, probably. Mother said so. I think I’m even taller than my father now." 

You hummed thoughtfully. "Really now?" The male hummed back, pulling you a little closer, letting the warmth between you both settle. "My mother missed you, you know?" he said suddenly, "She’s grown so used to seeing your presence in the halls, it feels wrong when you’re not there." You let out a small laugh, your gaze out toward the sea again. 

"I really appreciated her company these past few days," you said. "She brought honeyed bread and a whole basket of figs, I feel like i gained weight from all the fruits you two feed me" 

"Is that why you're cuter than usual too?" He leaned to your ear, you giggled, and he bumped your forehead gently before pulling back slightly, eyes flickering over your expression. "You know… maybe next, you could finally meet my father. Properly this time." 

"Really? That’s… kind of terrifying. The king and all." Telemachus gave you an unimpressed look. "He’s also my father, and he’s already got a good impression of you." 

Your eyes narrowed with suspicion. "What did you tell him?" 

"Nothing!" he said, grinning. "Other than how I really love you and how absolutely amazing you are." He turned you around as now you faced him, bringing his fingers to your cheeks as he rested them gently. Staring at each other as his words sink in, "He also still thinks it was adorable of you in the your first meeting" 

 "Gods, don't remind me" you groaned into your palms. "I’m never going to recover." 

 "Well," he said, leaning back against the window ledge, smug as ever, "you’re in luck. There’s a perfect opportunity coming up where you can redeem yourself." You peeked out between your fingers. "What do you mean?" 

 "The symposion," he said simply. “A feast. Celebration. Whatever you want to call it. My parents are hosting one to mark my father’s return—old friends from Sparta, Pylos, and Of course Ithaca"

The brief mention of your hometown tugged faintly at your smile—just enough for your lips to twitch before you quickly masked it again, brushing away the memory, "Oh… I’m invited?" you asked, playing it casual. 

Telemachus tilted his head, his brow slightly scrunched as if the question didn’t make any sense. "Of course you are. Why wouldn’t you be, baby?" he replied with that kind of obvious certainty only he could make sound so soft. You let out a nervous laugh, shrugging off. "Oh—yeah. Just checking." Your eyes drifted down to the floor, settling there.

Telemachus caught the shift instantly, that slight awkwardness. The way your smile was there, but your gaze was somewhere away. His hand lifted gently to your chin, guiding your gaze back to his. "Hey," he murmured, voice low, his thumb brushed lightly along your jaw. "You okay? You know I’m always here for you, right? In everything. Whatever it is." He said so delicately that you could feel it through his touch. He looked at you with that kind of concern that spontaneously ached your heart—for how well he saw through you, it made you feel bad to shift the warmth into something cloudy. 

So you smiled. Soft. Trying. "I know. And thank you," you whispered, leaning into the comfort of his touch. He let out a quiet breath before wrapping his arms around you, you folded into the embrace easily. He smelled like laurel leaves and sunlight—warm and curing. Familiar in a way that managed to quiet your thoughts, even if just for a little while. You felt his breath against your hair as he tightened his hold on you, gently firm, protective in that uniquely Telemachus way. "Tell me," he offered strongly yet soft. "Whatever it is. Anything. I already almost lost you twice… and i won't let it happen again. Not in any way." 

You stayed still. "I’m okay, Tele," you said. "I'll be okay." You murmured more likely to yourself. It was true. Just not all the way. But for now, he held onto you and you held onto him, just a little while, just to maybe fill that lingering hollow in your chest that seemed to not had healed completely yet.

But of course, you can’t just fill something temporarily and expect it to be okay forever. So when you were alone again, you found yourself pulled right back to that same spot by the window. 

The sea was calm that day, the kind of still where the breeze only gently curled the curtains and the light barely moved while the waves kiss the sand over and over again. The soft crash of water against the shore made your skin itch. A part of you wanted to feel that sand under your feet, the warmth of the sun directly on your face. You wanted to leave the room, but also you didn't. 

You could step out. But something about the world beyond the window still scared you, you should step out. Maybe. Maybe you could. You thought to yourself as you stared at the your blanket.

...

The sun had already begun dipping westward, staining the halls of the palace in amber, dragging a palm over his nape as Telemachus stepped out of the council room. The collar of his robes felt stifling as he started toward the infirmary, he hasn't seen you since this morning.

He paused mid-step when he spotted Nurse Eurycleia near the corridor turn, flustered and speaking hurriedly to a group of guards—his brows furrowed at this. "Nurse Eurycleia?" he called, already walking over. "What’s going on?" She turned with an obvious relief flooding her features. "Thank Olympus you’re here, Prince Telemachus—please, come with me." She gestured toward your room quickly. That… didn’t sit well. 

The moment he stepped inside, he noticed no sign of you. His stomach dropped, his breath caught halfway in his throat. "Where is she?" he asked, tension crawling up, Eurycleia didn’t answer at first, leading him to the open window, where a long makeshift rope of blankets dangled down the ledge—tied securely which explains your empty bed. 

"She… she was by the window all morning.. I had to step out.. just for a short while then one of the other girls came to tell me she was gone. She didn’t say anything to anyone....Nothing! She was just… quiet. I—I think this is how she got out." Telemachus stepped closer, eyes trailing the blanket rope, then the view beyond the window. The sea stretched out before him.

The same view you’d been staring at for days. Of course. Of course you didn’t want anyone to know. Of course you slipped out this way. He closed his eyes briefly, pressing his lips into a thin line. "Should I inform the men? We can search the shore if she's—" 

"No," Telemachus said, "It’s okay, Nurse Eurycleia." He opened his eyes again, gaze fixed far ahead. "I think I know where she is."

 ... 

The seashore stretched endlessly, waves brushing softly over the sand with every breath of the tide. The same seashore where you and Telemachus confessed to each other, the same seashore where faith had started to do their job. Now, it was your feet touching the water, your bare soles sank into the wet sand as the tide lapped over your skin, the wind playing with the loose strands of your hair, tangling it up in the breeze. You stared, eyes fixed ahead, letting it all in. The sky. The sea. The ache you’d been swallowing for days. 

This was the itch. A sound broke through the hush of waves, soft steps walking over sand from behind. You didn’t flinch, as you glanced over your shoulder and your gaze meeting his once again. 

Telemachus said nothing at first, letting the natural silence settle awhile, as you both stood there quietly, like the ocean was the only voice needed between you two. Telemachus stood beside you now, close enough for you to feel the warmth of his shoulder through the breeze, "It’s nice here," he said. "You always seem to find the quiet places before I do." He glances to you. You let out a soft hum, almost like a quiet laugh. "It's more like the quiet places always find me first." He smiled at that, it was a small one, but it lingered. 

 "You know," he started, brushing his hand through the strands that fell over his forehead, "I don’t know if you remember... but I first ever saw you was here." You blinked at that, turning to face him fully—a small smile tugging his lips. 

"It’s true," he continued. "I was supposed to welcome the newcomers that day, guide them to the palace. And then—I saw you." You tilted your head, brow furrowing. 

"I thought our first meeting was in the palace?" He shook his head, a soft chuckle escaping him. "Maybe for you but I remember seeing you before that. I was surprised, actually… to see someone my age." You looked at him, the wind brushing your hair aside. "You looked so serious back then," he said, smile growing. "You moved so gracefully, and even the way you spoke—it was so mature. I felt kind of childish standing next to you." 

Your eyes widened slightly, "You never told me that." He let out a quiet laugh, sheepish. "I didn’t know how to say it. But the second we actually talked—really talked—you showed your true self." He resisted.

"I got to meet the real you, the one who notices the little things everyone else misses, the one who's kind, but never weak. The you I fell in love with." His voice softened as he continued, "Even if it was a brief conversation, it did something to me. I don’t know what to call it. But I remember it clearly... even when you kept trying to avoid me after."

You looked at him knowingly. For a moment, he just looked back, not in the way people stare, but like he was quietly flipping through all the versions of you he’s seen, trying to understand the one sitting in front of him now. The silence between you wasn’t empty—it was his way of telling you he was here, and you could take all the time you needed to gather your thoughts. 

 "I… I don’t know how to explain it," you started. "I always thought I wanted to be free from her, from the life she tried to shape me into. And she’s gone… I should feel free.." You paused, head hanging low. "But I don’t. She..she never loved me, never truly but I was someone because of her. And now, I don’t know who I am without her." 

 Your fingers curled slightly. "I had a vision. Always. Of who I wanted to be. But this kind of freedom… that came from losing her—" you swallowed, "It feels stolen. Like I don’t deserve it." You refused to look at him—because in that moment, all you felt like was a bastard child.

"I don’t know where I belong anymore, Telemachus. I don’t even know what I am now." You finally said. It was a loss of definition, She wasn’t solicitous toward you, yet she defined your life so much that you forgot you had control over it too. Your freedom came at a heavy cost of guilt that makes you wonder if it’s even freedom at all. You feel illegitimate, alienated from everywhere, and on top of that, burdened by the terrifying uncertainty of what comes next.

"Before your mother left, I was able to have a talk to her." You paused as you stared at Telemachus stunned. "She said she wants you to be whatever you want to be. That she knows you… and somehow, despite everything, you'd still find a way not to hate her." You blinked as he went on. "When you wake up, she hopes you chase whatever it is you’ve always wanted, and that staying far away from you would be her way of supporting you, because.."

A pause. "She knew she doesn’t deserve you as her daughter." Your breath caught, no idea what to say. "She knew she failed you," Telemachus whispered. "And she still left hoping you’d live the life she never let you choose."

You looked down, trying to steady the sudden shift in your chest. That ache that used to tighten—now just quietly stung. "And..." Telemachus exhaled. "If you think you don't belong anywhere, then let me be the place you can feel belonged to." Your eyes met his. His were steady. Warm. True. "I want to be that place, (Name). To spend my entire life making sure you never feel like this way again, where you can be anything you want or be, and I’ll still love you."

You didn’t speak, throat too tight too. He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. "You don’t need to know what you are right now. You don’t need to have all the answers. Just let me stay by your side while we figure it out together."

You closed your eyes as his hand cupped your cheek. "I don’t deserve you," you whispered.

"Too late," he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "You already have me." You smiled against his collar, genuine. "I can’t promise I won’t spiral again."

"Good," he smirked. "Gives me more excuses to spoil you." Your laugh slipped out before you could stop it—and just like that, the air felt lighter. Warmer. He looked down at you, eyes soft but bright, that familiar glint in them—only for you. "Let’s run away," he said suddenly.

You blinked. "Sorry, what?"

"Not forever," he grinned. "Just for a little while. Travel, like you always talked about. See the world. Find your place—not one someone else made for you, but the one you choose yourself. I want that for you. I want to watch you live it."

You stared at him, lips parting just slightly "You’d really do that..?"

He smiled, brushing your cheek with the back of his fingers. "I'll go anywhere if it means being with you." A breeze came in from the sea, the waves stilling for a moment—like they were listening too.

You smiled again, fuller now, brighter than it had been in a long time. The kind that reached your eyes and tugged at the corners of his heart.

"You’re unbelievable." He didn’t say anything to your teasing—just tugged you closer by the waist, catching you off-guard with a startled shriek that turned into a laugh as he laughed too, the sound of it mixing with the sea breeze, his hands settled around you, a sign of his devotion for you.

The world slowed. The waves hushed. The sun dipped lower, painting the sea in amber gold as Telemachus leaned down, his lips brushing just beside your ear, voice barely above the wind.

"I love you, (Name)." You looked up, right into his eyes, and everything in you just… settled. "I love you too, Telemachus."

He kissed you then—your second kiss, but this time there was no rush, no ache behind it. Just the two of you, with all the time in the world, soft, certain, and everything love was meant to feel like.

Faith watched quietly, maybe finally letting you choose what comes next. no prophet can say what will carved the path. But faith didn’t leave you empty-handed. It left you with someone who’d hold and follow your hand to the great unknown. Someone who’d always choose you.

That's a wrap!! It is currently 2:32 am in a wednesday as we speak, i'm sorry if this chapter was glommy than the first part ToT. Writing this, was kind of my way of coping from the fact i relate with reader and her mother

"Don't you have a beggar to insult," you said, not wanting to give in to him just yet.

"I told you, I'm sorry about that," he sighed, throwing his head back dramatically before resting his chin on your shoulder as you moved on to sort the yellow threads.

"I was too deep in drink," he said against you, now placing a kiss on your neck which you still ignored.

"That seems to be the case all the time," you snapped once more, yet you didn't even try to escape his hold.

"Are you still cross with me about that?" He asked, nuzzling deeper into the side of your neck.

"I'm cross with you all the time," you said.

"That is true," he relented, kissing your neck again before letting his teeth sink into your flesh ever so slightly, the action making you gasp.

"Well, I guess maybe not all the time," he chuckled as you slapped one of his hands that rested upon your waist.

"I'm working Antinous," you said again, this time finally leaning into his touch.

"You know you like it," he teased, and you slapped his hand once more.

"What about a little kiss?" He tried.

"No," you said, moving on to sort the green threads.

"I'll stop bothering you after," he offered.

"I doubt that."

"Please, my love," he now begged, using the tone he knew made you melt. It was softer than usual, more boyish in comparison to the front he put up amongst the other men in the palace. And it was reserved only for you.

You let out a sigh. "You promise to leave me to work?" 

"Soldier's honor," he promised, a grin on his face, knowing that he had won.

"We both know you're no soldier Antinous," you rolled your eyes, yet still turning around and reaching out to cup his cheek.

"So handsome though," you admitted, taking in his sharp features that almost softened at your touch.

"Was that a compliment?" He asked, raising a teasing brow that matched his equally teasing grin.

"Maybe," you said, leaning into him, finally closing the gap between you in a kiss. 

It was quick, just a peck, and you were already pulling away, but he pulled you toward him again by the waist.

"Antinous," you let out a gasp that turned into a chuckle as you saw his face. The so-called soldier was pouting, and as always it got to you more than you cared to admit.

"That was no kiss my lady," he said, almost whining, and before he could do so even more you rolled your eyes again and pulled him in again by his cloak, giving him a searing kiss.

Your hand had found his hair, making a mess of the curls at the base of his neck, and his arm wrapped tighter around your waist making you cave into him. 

His free hand made its way to your cheek, his thumb rubbing soft circles on your now burning skin.

The kiss was a long one, one that made a mess of both your clothes, with some of the elaborately placed pins in your hair also beginning to come loose. 

Yet you both continued on, pulling away every few seconds, your hot breath fanning each other's lips before you both leaned in again. 

It was when he hiked your leg up to his waist you realized you had lost yourself.

You pulled away quickly, placing your hand on his chest and pushing him away, the action was met with another pout.

"That is quite enough," you said, beginning to fix your clothes, and despite his disappointment, Antinous helped you. 

He straightened out the strap of your dress that now hung lower on your shoulder than intended, and gently tucked the hair that stuck to your cheeks behind your ear.

"Beautiful," he whispered, not intending for you to hear, but the proximity failed him.

"Flattery will get you nowhere," you said simply, now satisfied with your appearance.

"I must now get to work," you said, giving his chest another push so you could squeeze past him, holding up your dress so you could sprint away back to do another task.

It’s hot as balls outside. You’re covered in sweat, which mingles in a sticky and unpleasant mix with the sunscreen you’ve been dutifully applying since the afternoon to avoid frying like an egg. When the sun finally set, you no longer had to worry about the burgeoning threat of skin cancer, but the heat doesn’t break. In fact, it almost seems to get worse, because more and more people arrive to crowd you as night descends and the bigger names with larger fanbases grace the stage.

You’re waiting for Beth outside of the bathroom facilities. She's been ingesting a steady stream of margaritas since sundown, so she leaves you holding the bag, literally. At least it's a nice excuse to separate yourself from the throng of jumping, sweaty bodies gathered by the stage.

It’s nearly two in the morning. You’re hungry. Your feet are killing you. You have a headache from the festival’s sugary cocktails. You’re sweating through the top Beth lent you. And on top of everything else, your ovulation cramps are kicking in like a motherfucker.

Growing desperate, you dig through Beth's bag, searching for the little Altoid tin that she always keeps her pain meds in. At long last, your hands make contact with the metal tin at the bottom of her tote. Nearly crying with relief, you pop an aspirin in your mouth and wash it down with the tepid bottled water you’ve been clutching for the last hour.

Beth's voice rings out from behind you, talking over the din of the nearby DJ set. “What are you doing?”

You turn towards her, and see Beth staring at the tin in your hand. “I have cramps,” you explain, and just as you’re about to shove the tin back in her bag and hand it to her, she grabs your wrist.

“…please tell me you didn’t just take one of those,” she says urgently.

You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because those are not aspirin, babe.”

Your blood runs cold. Your brain quickly does the math — Beth had told you how much she’s looking forward to meeting up with her rave friends tomorrow for the second night of Pitt Fest. Beth has always been quite the partier. And she often partied with her good friend Molly.

Your eyes widen in horror. “Oh no.”

Pitt Fest, as always, is a huge pain in the ass for the night shift.

Handoff gets messy. There's a shit ton of substance cases, even more of heatstroke. Robby stays longer than he should and snaps at everyone, clearly in his feelings remembering last year’s Pitt Fest. Understandable, yes, but it also makes everyone’s life that much harder when they’re within sniping distance of him.

Needless to say, Jack is already over this shift, and it’s not even halfway done. It doesn't help that his favorite resident happens to have the night off, which deposits his mood firmly in the hospital basement. Which, coincidentally, happens to be the location of the morgue.

Now that Robby has been politely ordered to go the fuck home, Jack feels like he can finally focus on his job instead of doing damage control with the med students. As he walks down the hall, Lena catches his attention from the hub desk.

“We have an ambulance two minutes out with a mid-20s female, collapsed at Pitt Fest,” she informs him. “Probable dehydration, likely drug-related, because, well… Pitt Fest.”

This festival truly is the gift that keeps on giving. Jack cracks his knuckles and eyes the ambulance bay doors. “All right. Let's get ready to receive the party girl.”

A few minutes later, the gurney is wheeled in by two paramedics and received by Lena and Parker. Parker shoots an alarmed and confused look over her shoulder at Jack, who steps forward to supervise.

“Dr. Abbot!"

Of all the things Jack expected to see tonight, this is at the bottom of the list. You're strapped to the gurney, scantily clad and gleaming with sweat, a goofy smile on your face and your pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow your irises.

Jack scrubs a hand through his hair. “You're shitting me.”

This is quite the surprising turn of events.

After Lena sets you up in South 16, Jack discreetly shoos away Parker so he can handle your examination himself. He doubts you would be comfortable with one of your fellow residents seeing you like this, considering your condition and your current state of dress.

Jack closes the door behind him and saunters over to you. His eyes snag on your tight, strappy top, and the strategically placed cutouts baring sections of your midriff and chest. He’s holding onto his professionalism by a thread, especially with the way you’re shifting around on the exam table, causing the hem of your miniskirt to ride up.

He has no choice but to focus up. You need medical attention, not the kind of attention his brain and body really want to give you right now. First, Lena takes your temperature and shows him the number on the display. 100.2 degrees F. It's coming down from what the paramedics recorded in the ambulance, and not so high that he’s still worried about heat stroke. But you’ll need cooling down regardless.

“That’s quite the outfit you got on,” he mutters as he gently raises your chin and shines his penlight into your pupils.

“Do you like it?” you ask, beaming up at him even as you squint. “I borrowed it from my friend. She’s so nice.”

Your pupils are so dilated that your eyes are almost completely black.

“Yup.” Jack clicks off the light and sighs, turning to Lena. “She’s rolling, all right. Let’s get a tox to make sure there’s nothing else to be worried about.”

You don’t seem to even register the pain of the needle prick, but you let out a delighted little hum when Lena smooths a bandage over your arm and adds gentle pressure over top of it.

“That feels good,” you murmur with a lazy smile.

“I bet.” Jack crosses his arms and tries to give you a stern look. “Can I ask what my best resident is doing taking ecstasy at a music festival?”

“I didn’t take it on purpose, I swear,” you protest, your eyes widening in a brief panic. “It was my friend’s. I thought it was aspirin, for my cramps.”

“You’re menstruating?” he asks, picking up his tablet and sitting in the edge of the exam table next to you to amend your chart.

You shake your head and say matter-of-factly, “Ovulation cramps.”

His eyebrows shoot up towards the ceiling in surprise. 

You continue babbling, unaware of the grenade you just lobbed at Jack. “She tried to get me to throw it up, but I couldn’t because I don’t really have a gag reflex.”

Jack takes a deep breath to prevent his brain from completely short-circuiting. 

Your face breaks into a sheepish smile, and you giggle, “Oops. Sorry, that was probably too much information.” Leaning forward on the exam table, you bring your face inches away from his and observe with a sigh, “Your eyes are really pretty.”

From behind him, Jack hears Lena snickering under her breath. He clears his throat and straightens up to standing.

Avoiding Lena's eyes, he instructs her, “Let’s, uh, get her some fluids and cooling packs, huh? Maybe a Saf-T-Pop, too. Keep her mouth occupied, so she won’t say any more nonsense she’ll regret in the morning.”

Lena just shoots him an amused look and heads off to gather supplies. Nurses, he thinks ruefully to himself. They see everything.

Movement and sound draw his attention back to you. You're laid back on the exam table, eyes fluttering closed. And you’re running your hands through your hair, letting out a pleased little noise like the sensation is better than sex. 

Jack breathes carefully through his nose. He needs out of this room with you, before this becomes mortifying for everyone involved. His phone buzzes in his pocket, giving him the perfect excuse for escape.

His voice is thin when he speaks, and for a moment, he’s glad you’re too high to notice. “You sit tight, sunshine.” 

As he turns to leave the room, your hand catches the edge of his scrubs.

“You’re leaving?” your mouth turns down into a pout, those huge eyes shining up at him. He very nearly gives in, very nearly reaches out a hand to stroke a thumb across your cheek just to hear the kind of sound it would pull from you. But his phone buzzes insistently, so he briefly pats your knee instead.

“I have other patients to see. But I'll be back before you know it,” he assures you, pulling open the door and diving headfirst back into the glorious chaos.

At least it’ll be a convenient distraction from the thought of you, eagerly waiting in south fifteen for him to return.

He shakes his head in disbelief. Ovulation cramps. You’re gonna be the death of him.

An MVA, a ketamine overdose, and a cardiac event later, the Pitt finally slows down enough for Jack to breathe. Enough to check your tox screen and sigh with relief that the MDMA you mistakenly took wasn’t cut with anything. Alcohol is the only other thing in your system, in levels not high enough to be concerning. Although, combined with the ecstasy, it means you probably won’t remember much of this exciting little escapade.

At long last, he manages to find some time to check on you. 

In his absence, Lena had set you up with a gown to preserve a little more of your modesty. You’re laying on the exam table amongst the cooling packs, an IV attached to your arm and a Saf-T-Pop in your mouth that’s turning your tongue red. 

A smile breaks like sunrise over your face as soon as you see him.

“Hey there, sunshine,” he greets you, approaching you with a little more warmth now that Lena's sharp eyes aren’t here to observe.

“Hi. I missed you,” you sigh.

Jack smirks. “Did you now?”

You nod happily. “Mm-hmm.”

“How are you feeling?” he asks, his gaze attentive, checking you over.

“Cold,” you answer, wrapping your arms around yourself.

He reaches up a hand to feel your forehead. Still warm, but still steadily coming down over time. He’s satisfied enough with your progress. You'll be out of here in no time.

The prospect disappoints him just a little.

“Yeah, your body is having trouble regulating its temperature,” he explains, his thumb stroking delicately along your hairline. “We’ll need to keep these cool packs on you a little while longer.”

Just as his hand retreats, your hand catches his wrist. You press his palm to your cheek, almost nuzzling into it like an affectionate kitten.

“Your hands are so warm,” you murmur, eyelids slipping shut as you revel in the sensation.

The gesture catches him off guard, but he doesn’t pull away. He couldn’t even if he wanted to, and he certainly doesn’t want to.

“Easy there, gorgeous,” he chuckles softly. “I need that hand for doctoring.”

Your eyelids flutter halfway open, and you look up at him with a lazy grin, clearly pleased as punch. “You think I'm gorgeous?”

Jack freezes for a moment. The word had slipped out without him even registering it, familiar and endeared and entirely too revealing. 

“I plead the fifth,” he replies, warmth creeping up his neck.

You giggle again. God, that sound does things to his heart that are medically concerning.

“I think you’re gorgeous,” you mumble dreamily.

Jack blinks in surprise.

He’s been a little too fond of you for a while now, been staring a little too long when you brush past him in the halls. And he’s suspected before that it might not be completely one-sided. He sees how you receive his attention and praise differently than the other attendings, how you look at him with more than just the admiration of a mentor. But suspecting it and having it be confirmed are two different things. Especially since you wouldn’t be saying any of this if you were sober.

He tries to laugh it off before his ego can run away with the compliment. “I think you’re high.”

You shrug. “Maybe. But I always think you’re gorgeous.”

Removing his palm from your cheek, you examine it with fascination, running a finger along the deep set lines. “I think about these,” you say thoughtfully. “All the time.”

Jack is a little ashamed at how quickly that comment goes straight to his cock. His favorite resident, fantasizing about his hands, maybe even touching yourself to the thought of them, wishing your own fingers were his—

He drags his free hand over his face and mutters, "Jesus Christ."

“Can I tell you a secret?” You peer up at him again, that goofy, starstruck smile returning. “I’ve got, like, the biggest crush on you.”

Unfortunately for Jack, there is very little time to process this very interesting information before his phone buzzes again. Just beyond the doors, he can hear the familiar sound of what is likely a high-priority trauma heading into the bay. Voices overlapping in urgent tones, gurney wheels on tile floor, grunts and yelps of pain from a patient.

Jack crosses to the door in two steps, and speaks over his shoulder to you. “Hey, baby, I gotta handle something. Stay out of trouble, okay?”

As the door swings shut behind him, he just manages to catch the sound of you happily mumbling to yourself, “He called me baby.”

Which is how he heads into Trauma 1 with a smile on his face, entirely too cheerful for a man facing down a compound femur fracture. 

The shift that would never fucking end is almost fucking over. And all Jack can think about is you. You and your moony, lovey-dovey eyes and your wide, childlike smile. You gazing up at him and crooning I have the biggest crush on you. You giggling and telling him point-blank that you’re ovulating.

As he rolls out of yet another demanding trauma, Lena updates him on your condition. You’re rehydrated and back to a normal temperature, pretty much ready for discharge if you can be released to someone who will take care of you. He returns to your room, finding you unhooked from your IV and cold-pack-free, happily set up with another lollipop.

“Jack, you’re back!” you exclaim, and then laugh at your accidental rhyme.

Still rolling, he thinks. He checks his watch. According to your best guess of when you took the ‘aspirin’ in your friend’s purse, it’s been about four hours. You'll be due to start coming down anytime in the next two hours or so. He's due to head out, but he can’t bring himself to go home until he knows you’re leaving in capable hands.

“Hey, sunshine.” He offers you a tired but warm smile. “Seems like you’re in pretty good shape here, and you should be tapering off pretty soon. You got anybody to take you home, keep an eye on you?”

A little crease forms between your brows as you think hard. “I don’t know where my friend went when the ambulance came. And I think my phone died,” you add pathetically, gesturing to the device in your lap and its terminally black screen.

Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. He can’t in good conscience leave you to your own devices, especially when you’ve never taken ecstasy before. At worst, there’s still a chance you could have some kind of reaction. At best, the comedown is sure to knock you on your ass. 

He can only think of one thing to do. It's not the best idea. It might not even be a good idea. But his brain is too addled from the long shift to come up with anything better. And you need someone to take care of you.

“Jesus. Okay,” he mutters to himself, then sits on the edge of the exam table, bringing his face level to yours. “Listen up, sunshine.”

You gaze at him intently, attention vacillating occasionally between his eyes and his mouth. Jack has a feeling that what he’s about to say will go in one ear and right out the other. But there’s a chance you’ll retain it, so he says it anyway.

“You're gonna have a pretty serious crash when you come down. All those happy little chemicals that are making you feel good right now?” He gives you a soft little tap against your temple, and you giggle softly. He continues, “They’re gonna go on vacation for a day or two. I don't want you dealing with that on your own. So I'm gonna take you to my place, just to watch out for you until you’re feeling a little more like yourself.”

You’re quiet for a minute, your brain catching up and computing the meaning of what he just said. When it finishes, the lightbulb goes off behind your eyes, and you ask excitedly, “We’re having a sleepover?”

Of course that would be your takeaway. 

He chuckles as he helps you to your feet. “That's right. You got it.”

When Jack drapes his hoodie over your shoulders and guides you out of the Pitt to his car, he’s reminded of all the reasons that this is probably a terrible idea.

He sees the watchful eyes and the knowing smirks of the nurses. He sees Parker and Crus snickering behind their hands. He sees Shen counting up his winnings from the betting pool, because he wrote down molly and tripsitter Abbot.

And he feels your hand clinging to his bicep, sees how you gaze up at him with a dreamy expression as he walks you out to his car. He’s knows he’s really going to need to behave himself for a few hours, because there’s a very good chance that you won’t, and Jack doesn’t want to accidentally take advantage of your… impaired judgement.

You spend most of the ride with your face by the cracked car window, feeling the wind on your face, eyes blissfully closed. Jack thanks his lucky stars that he thought to give the apartment a once-over before shift, so he isn’t bringing you into a total mess.

He walks you into his bedroom and gestures to the en-suite. “Bathroom’s there, if you want to take a shower. I'll find you something a little more… comfortable to wear,” he adds, peeling his eyes away from your tiny little shirt and how you’re already fussing with the straps.

As he turns to his bureau to find you a t-shirt, he feels arms wrapping around his middle, your body molding to his back as you embrace him with a sigh. “Thank you for being so nice to me.”

Jack swallows and delicately removes your hands, stepping out of your embrace and ushering you in the direction of the bathroom.

“Go on, then,” he instructs you. “While you’re still upright.”

You barely even register it as rejection, heading towards the shower and wiggling out of your top before Jack even has the chance to close the door behind you. Which he does, quickly and with his eyes glued to the floor.

His instincts were right. He will very much need to behave himself while you’re here.

He busies himself while you shower by changing out of his scrubs and assembling a meal. It's a humble offering — just a couple of sandwiches and frozen french fries heated up in the oven, but it’s better than nothing. 

After about twenty minutes, you emerge from the bedroom with damp hair and your face scrubbed clean, clad in one of his t-shirts and a pair of his boxers, smelling like his soap. You lean on his kitchen island with a contented little sigh. 

Jack repeats it to himself like a mantra — behave yourself.

“Time to eat something,” he says, sliding one of the plates toward you.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I know. But I'm trying to set you up for success here, so you don’t feel as awful when this is out of your system. When's the last time you ate?” he asks.

You rest your chin on your hand as you think back. “I had… lunch.”

“Thought so.” He puts the plate into your hands and steers you in the direction of the couch with a hand on your lower back. “You and I are gonna eat these sandwiches, drink some water, and watch Planet Earth.”

You gasp in delight and plop down onto the couch. “I love Planet Earth!”

He knows you do. You'd gushed about it being your favorite docuseries at work, and he’d bragged about owning the box set. It had been the first day you and he had really started to bond.

Once the tv is on, it thankfully keeps you occupied. You chew your food slowly, enraptured with the beautiful imagery on the screen. Managing a decent effort with the meal, you eat half the sandwich and most of the fries before you start to lose a little steam.

You abandon your plate on the coffee table, then take Jack completely by surprise as you lean over to lay your head in his lap.

He goes still for a moment, unsure if he should be allowing this. But he doesn’t have the heart to push you away, so he puts his plate aside and lets a hand come to rest on your shoulder.

You sigh happily and snuggle closer.

It's been so long since Jack has taken care of someone like this that he’d almost forgotten what it feels like. How good it feels to be needed. The easy intimacy of sharing a space, sharing a meal, of letting someone melt against you after a long night.

Affectionately, he brushes a stray lock of hair out of your face, and you practically purr in response, leaning into his hand. So Jack keeps doing it, keeps gently stroking his fingers through your hair, preferring to watch your relaxing form instead of the polar bears on screen.

The two of you spend nearly an hour like that, until your breath starts to take on that even, drowsy quality and Jack’s own brain starts calling for rest. He gently eases you off his lap to sit up, takes you by the hand and leads you to bed, already resigning himself to the aching back that a couch nap is going to earn him.

Jack sets you up with a glass of water and the best blankets in the linen closet. As he turns to head back to the living room, your hand grabs his arm, pulling him back.

“Stay.”

Your voice is low and warm. You're sitting up in his bed, his sheets pooled around your knees. Your eyes are dark, tempting, pleading.

Jack knows dangerous territory when he sees it.

Still, your serotonin is due to start dropping any time now, and hurt feelings are only going to be worsened once it does. Jack sits carefully on the edge of the bed, maintaining a few inches of distance, his other hand gently cradling your cheek.

“Sorry, sunshine. Not a good idea.”

You move closer, your gaze fixed firmly on his mouth. “Why?”

Best behavior, Jack. 

“Because you’re still tapering off. Plus, I just worked a long shift and I need to sleep.” He takes in a deep breath as he feels your hand slide across his shoulders. “And I've got a feeling I won't be getting much rest next to you.”

In a move so surprising that Jack is momentarily powerless to stop it, you rise up onto your knees and shift to straddle one of his thighs.

“What if I promise to be really, really good?” you murmur sweetly.

Jack knows he should stop you, and he almost does. But then you rock your hips on his thigh, the tiniest little life-ruining movement, and you let out the softest, neediest little sound. Suddenly, Jack is hanging onto his sanity and self control-by a thread. And that thread is fraying rapidly.

“Baby,” he whispers, half warning and half plea. His hands come to your hips, torn between stopping you and spurring you on.

Your hips rock again, more purposeful this time. “Please,” you beg quietly, so close now that your lips just barely brush against his.

For a few shameful moments, Jack forgets about his fatigue and the ache in his leg and he wonders… how morally reprehensible would it really be to just let you get off on his thigh? You’d said yourself that you’re ovulating, probably making you even needier. Fuck, he can feel how badly you want it, wetness soaking through the boxers you’re wearing and Jack’s sweatpants. Would it really be so awful of him to sit passively as you hump his leg to get the relief you’re clearly so desperate for? To take pity on you and let you use him for your pleasure? 

But he knows it would be wrong, because he’d be getting off on it even if you didn’t touch him. You're not in your right mind, and he doesn’t want to make you come for the first time when you’re whacked out on MDMA.

Summoning the will from deep inside himself, he stills your hips and eases you off of his thigh, ignoring your whines as he nudges you back onto the pillows.

“It wouldn’t be right. I'm not touching you until you’re sober,” he says firmly.

Jack gets to his feet and tucks the blankets around you. “I’ll see you in a few hours. Wake me if you need anything.” He laughs softly at the pointed pouting look you shoot his way. “Other than that.”

“You’re no fun,” you call after him as he retreats into the living room.

Once the bedroom door is shut behind him, he collapses on the couch and wrestles off his prosthetic, punching a throw pillow a few times to soften it before going horizontal. Even after what felt like the longest shift he’s had in months, he’s unsure how much sleep he’ll actually manage to get knowing you’re in the next room. Probably snuggling one of his pillows as if it’s him, probably squeezing your thighs together until the last of the drugs leave your system.

He groans and rolls over, willing his body and his still half-hard cock to go to sleep.

You wake feeling like death warmed over.

You’re in a bed that doesn’t belong to you, but smells familiar and comforting. Same with your clothes. A few memories make it through the fog, blurry and out of order. Planet Earth. Jack’s hand, warm and pleasant on your cheek. An ambulance ride. Lena ruffling your hair and handing you a lollipop. A shower with a chair and a grab bar and soap that smells like Jack.

You’re at Jack's apartment, you realize with a start.

Checking the time groggily, you observe that you've slept from the early morning until late afternoon. Thank god you’d asked for tonight off as well, anticipating you’d need recovery time after Pitt Fest. 

You can vaguely recall the warm, fuzzy feelings you’d experienced last night. In the abstract, at least. Now, you feel mostly guilt and shame and embarrassment and anxiety. How could you have been so stupid?

Sounds of life echo from the kitchen, which means Jack has woken up ahead of you. Your guilt sharpens. Jack is spending his hard-earned downtime taking care of you, because of your own carelessness.

Fatigue clings to your bones as you shuffle to the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror is less than kind. Dark shadows frame your eyes, worse than the usual bags worn by the night shift crew. Your hair is a mess, and you sigh as you comb your fingers through to tame it.

Time to face the music.

You trudge out into the kitchen, where Jack is wearing an apron over a t-shirt and sweats and cooking an omelette, looking awfully chipper for having slept seven hours on the couch. He looks so good that it briefly makes you angry. Fuck him for looking so good, while you look and feel like utter dogshit.

Of course, that annoyance turns to guilt again when he looks up and smiles.

“Hey, lover girl,” he greets you warmly as you lean on the kitchen island. “How are you feeling?”

You rub your eyes and groan, “Like I got hit by a Mack truck.”

He squeezes your shoulder fondly and grabs a plate from an overhead cabinet. “Let’s get some food and water in you.”

“Thank you,” you mutter sheepishly. “I’m sorry about… all this.”

“Don't even worry about it, sunshine.” 

Jack hands you a glass of water and starts making you a plate. You accept it with a grimace. “I'm not feeling very sunshine-y right about now. I can't remember half of what happened after I went down at the concert.”

“I hope we’ve learned not to go digging for meds in that particular friend’s purse.” He smirks and sets a plate in front of you. A vegetable omelette and buttered toast. Your appetite hasn’t yet returned to its normal levels, but your doctor brain knows that you really need to eat, so you reach for the toast first.

“Never again,” you vow as you take a bite.

In the light of day and out from under the influence of Beth's ‘aspirin,’ you get a good look at Jack's apartment for the first time as he assembles his own plate. It's not spotless, but it’s generally tidy, and it’s a very nice place. Good furniture, great windows with better blackout shades, a nice floor plan. Its niceness only makes you feel smaller.

You poke at your omelette, stewing. “Jack?”

“Yes?”

“Don't take this the wrong way, but…why am I here?”

He plates his own omelette and leans a hip against the kitchen island. “You’d never taken MDMA before, and I knew you’d be in for a hell of a drop. I didn't want you to be on your own.”

You resist the urge to frown. This whole saga is doing nothing to remedy your tragic crush on him. Did he have to be so nice and caring on top of everything else? It feels a little unfair at the moment.

“That’s… very considerate,” you mumble.

“What can I say? I'm a considerate guy.” He pops a bite of omelette into his mouth with a wink.

A thought occurs to you that briefly makes your stomach turn. “Does the whole Pitt know?”

Jack's expression tells you everything you need to know before he even speaks. “There… might have been a betting pool on the subject. Shen cleaned up.”

You drop your face into your hands. “Awesome. That's really awesome.”

Every single one of your coworkers knows that you spent the night rolling. Tears prick at your eyes beneath your palms, which only worsens your humiliation. The last thing you need right now is to cry in front of Jack Abbot. Even if it’s just because the chemicals in your brain are out of whack, it doesn't make it any less embarrassing.

“Hey.” Jack's hand finds your shoulder again. “Don’t worry about it. They're good people, no one is judging you.”

Despite your best efforts, a mortifying little sniffle slips out at the kindness in his voice. 

 “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Come here.”

You can’t bear to look up, but your breath hitches in surprise when Jack pulls you into his arms. Instantly, your brain begins to quiet, focusing on the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the reassuring weight of his arms around you, the slow arc of his thumb rhythmically stroking your shoulder blade.

It's medicine. Oxytocin and dopamine, feel-good chemicals produced by physical touch, bolstering your brain against the sapped well of serotonin the ecstasy left in its wake. It also makes your heart flutter pathetically in your chest.

He holds you for a long moment, his grip tightening when you finally loop your arms around his waist and return the embrace.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” you whisper, allowing the comfort to sink into your skin and fill your lungs. 

“Of course.”

Jack only pulls away when you do, gently swiping a calloused thumb underneath your eye to banish the straggling tear that managed to escape. 

“Let’s get comfortable on the couch,” he says, a hand settling on your back to guide you. “You’re still on the comedown.”

You worry you might be overstaying your welcome. But Jack seems to be in no rush to get you out of his apartment, content to let you rot on his couch as long as you need to. Surely he must have better things to do on his night off than take care of you, but he sits sentry at your side without complaint.

After some consideration, Planet Earth is tabled for the time being — even if you’ve seen it before, animal death is sure to bring back the waterworks in your current state. Flipping through channels, you settle on a cheesy mid-2000s rom-com that you’ve seen before and snuggle back into the couch cushions. 

Through it all, you feel the comfort of his steady presence, his hand rubbing idle circles on your back, like an IV drip of Vitamin Jack straight to your brain. You give into the feeling, too worn out to fight it, curling into his side. Eventually, you feel a gentle graze at your scalp as he idly plays with your hair. It surprises you for a moment, but you’re not complaining in the slightest. You melt into it, eyes fluttering closed until you’re slipping in and out of a light doze.

Afternoon fades to evening, to dinnertime, to nighttime, to bedtime. Even after your intermittent sleep, your fatigue is still bone deep, and Jack insists you can stay the night. You really try to convince him to let you take the couch, but he refuses, insisting that your body needs proper rest to return to baseline. At the end of the night, he sends you off to bed with a smirk.

When you wake up in Jack's bed for the second time, it’s much less disorienting. It helps that you’re much clearer than you were seventeen hours ago. The clock reads 9:05 am — you have the whole day ahead of you to shower, change, and steel yourself for the humiliation ritual that is bound to be your shift tonight.

You stumble into the living room, bleary-eyed. Jack is reclined on the couch with a laptop and readers perched on the end of his nose. Ugh, fuck him again for looking so good.

His eyes find yours over the edge of the screen. “Hey there. You sleep good?”

“Mm-hmm,” you reply, stretching. “I'm feeling much better, I think.”

His mouth curves at the corner. “Good.”

Leaning on the edge of the couch, you sigh and glance at the clock on the wall. “I should probably head home soon, get my life together before shift tonight. Would you be able to drive me home?”

“Sure thing, sunshine.” 

After you eat breakfast and shower off the cast of bedrotting from the day before, you change back into the clothes you arrived in, which Jack took the liberty of washing for you. As much as you appreciate the gesture, you blanch at the idea of Jack handling your underwear, and try very hard not to think about that mental image.

As the quiet car ride progresses, you ponder your looming fate, mentally preparing yourself for the teasing you’ll get from the nurses and other residents. It's disorienting to not know what you’re walking into, to have been mentally absent for most of it.

You can’t resist the urge to ask anymore. “Was I a total mess?”

He nods, amused. “Yes. But a very cute mess.”

“God, this is so embarrassing,” you groan. “What did I say?”

“Are you sure you wanna know?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

That makes you pause, glancing at him warily. “…was it bad?” 

“You got a little fixated on hands for a while.” Jack pauses, like he isn’t sure how much to reveal, if you’re ready to handle it. “Said you think about mine all the time.”

Suddenly, you feel a bit sick, even though the car is headed in a straight line down the road. If that's just where it starts… if that’s not the worst of it, then what is?

“Oh god,” you whisper in horror. 

“You said you think I'm gorgeous,” he continues, voice thick with amusement. “And that you have a big ol’ crush on me. And… you might’ve tried to seduce me a little at bedtime.”

Your cheeks flare hot. This is quite possibly the worst outcome of the situation aside from death. At the moment, death feels preferable.

You stare straight ahead, sinking in your seat and pressing your hands to your forehead to try and keep your brain from exploding. “Excuse me, I'm just gonna open the door and go lay down in traffic.”

He laughs, the sound warm and fond and doing absolutely nothing to temper your embarrassment. “It's okay.”

“It is completely not okay, Jack,” you protest, turning your body away from him and towards the passenger side door, like that will save you from this conversation.

Jack places a hand on your thigh.

All the systems in your brain go down simultaneously.

His palm rests just above your knee, not high enough to be too inappropriate, but it’s intimate. Especially because your choice of garment for Pitt Fest leaves your leg bare and exposed to his touch. Never once does he take his eyes off the road.

“It was flattering,” he says coolly, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over your knee. “And extremely cute.”

He lets the assertion hang in the silence, and he doesn’t move his hand, letting it rest warm and comfortable against the soft skin of your thigh.

After some considerable effort, you remember how to breathe. Once the oxygen makes it to your brain, you manage to peel your hands away from your face and peek sideways at him. 

“…really?” you ask, because you need the confirmation. Does Jack Abbot — your mentor, the object of all your desires, and the man who just babysat you through an unwitting MDMA trip — really think you’re cute?

He gives your thigh a gentle squeeze. “Really.”

There isn’t much else to say for the rest of the car ride. Jack keeps his hand on your thigh until he turns down your street and throws the car in park. You try and fail to suppress a smile the whole way, and allow him to walk you up to your building’s front step, palms tingling with anticipation.

“I’d like to do this again sometime,” he says as you unlock the main entrance. “Minus the party drugs.”

You grin up at him, slightly emboldened by the revelations that occurred in the car. “You wanna have another sleepover?”

“Very much.” His eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles back. “See you tonight?”

“See you tonight.”

You turn to head inside, but Jack catches your elbow. “Hey. One last thing.”

Before you have time to register his closeness, a hand slides along your waist, another cupping your jaw, and Jack is kissing you.

A warm, pleasant feeling floods you from top to toe, a high rivalling the chemical one you’d experienced twenty-eight hours ago. He kisses you like he’s been thinking about it that entire twenty-eight hours. It's tender and hungry at the same time. By the time he pulls away, your lips follow after his and you almost stumble forward into his arms.

You open your eyes and blink up at him, feeling a little dazed and starstruck again.

“Had to wait until you were level,” Jack murmurs. He gives you a lingering peck at the corner of your mouth and descends down the front steps to his car.

You beam after him.