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second_bananaI wrote a fic. Just a little over 500 words.
Title: Scars
Author: second_banana (Susan)
Pairing: Hector/Andromache, Hector/Paris implied
Rating: PG-13
Summery: Andromache was used to seeing scars on Hector’s body.
Feedback: God yes.
Author's Notes: I blame![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
perseph2hades who infected me with HectorMuse, elvensorceress who encourages my perving at every turn and is the sessiest Beta known to man, and
This pic.
I may post this in a few communities, but I'd like some response from my flist first.
Andromache was used to seeing scars on Hector’s body. He had never tried to hide from her the physical toll of his duties. In fact, he knew she once took great delight in them.
The first time Hector had been called out to fight after his wedding, Andromache had spent hours looking over the constellation of scars that spattered his chest and legs. Boyhood injuries and marks of a warrior combined. Andromache resumed her study the day he returned, playfully announcing that she had discovered her connection to the battles of Troy. Each scar she would lovingly caress or lave with her tongue; memorizing each new dip and swell.
It became a ritual for them. Hector began to take record of his own injuries while out on the fields and would chide his wife if one escaped her clever observations. They would laugh, and tease and make love to one another these nights. For Hector was anything but remiss as a lover.
Until Alexandros.
There was no doubt in Andromache’s mind that her husband loved her. He spoke the words and his eyes were honest. His passion had not wavered. Hector was like a raging bull when angry, a god when aroused. Apollo’s gifts were not lost on Andromache. Strength. Courage. Beauty. Protection. Power. He had the heat of the sun behind his every caress.
But Hector had removed himself from her. He hid his scars, preferring to make love under the cover of darkness or the heavy drape of their bedding. But scars were not the only thing he sought to hide. Mixed with the brands of battle, small bruises began to appear. Bruises in places protected by his armor. She had seen the twist of guilt in her husbands face as he had disrobed.
Andromache knew the marks of a lover. She had placed several upon the same shoulder that she saw before her now, as Hector lay momentarily content after their love making.
She watched his face grow firm but distant in the way that it did when he knew he was going to displease her.
“Andromache.” The word was a plea as much as anything else. Andromache just turned to her husband and placed her hand on his bearded cheek. Hector’s next words were halted and pained.
“I had promised… Paris that I would meet with him this night. He has been slacking in his duties to Troy,” the last of his speech was strong.
“Go to him, my love.” Andromache placed a kiss on Hector’s brow. “He needs… instruction.”
Hector nodded faintly; his brow knit in a pattern of indiscernible emotion. He slowly rose to his feet and donned his robes, not looking at his wife. A guilty man facing his private judgment.
As he gathered himself and strode silently to the door, Andromache turned her head away.
“Hector,” her voice was a mourning wail restrained by force of will.
Hector stopped at the heavy oak door but could not turn around.
“I love you, my prince.”
His heart clamped in his chest. His head turned to see where his feet could not lead him.
“And I you… my wife.”
Fin.
Title: Scars
Author: second_banana (Susan)
Pairing: Hector/Andromache, Hector/Paris implied
Rating: PG-13
Summery: Andromache was used to seeing scars on Hector’s body.
Feedback: God yes.
Author's Notes: I blame
perseph2hades who infected me with HectorMuse, elvensorceress who encourages my perving at every turn and is the sessiest Beta known to man, and This pic.
I may post this in a few communities, but I'd like some response from my flist first.
Andromache was used to seeing scars on Hector’s body. He had never tried to hide from her the physical toll of his duties. In fact, he knew she once took great delight in them.
The first time Hector had been called out to fight after his wedding, Andromache had spent hours looking over the constellation of scars that spattered his chest and legs. Boyhood injuries and marks of a warrior combined. Andromache resumed her study the day he returned, playfully announcing that she had discovered her connection to the battles of Troy. Each scar she would lovingly caress or lave with her tongue; memorizing each new dip and swell.
It became a ritual for them. Hector began to take record of his own injuries while out on the fields and would chide his wife if one escaped her clever observations. They would laugh, and tease and make love to one another these nights. For Hector was anything but remiss as a lover.
Until Alexandros.
There was no doubt in Andromache’s mind that her husband loved her. He spoke the words and his eyes were honest. His passion had not wavered. Hector was like a raging bull when angry, a god when aroused. Apollo’s gifts were not lost on Andromache. Strength. Courage. Beauty. Protection. Power. He had the heat of the sun behind his every caress.
But Hector had removed himself from her. He hid his scars, preferring to make love under the cover of darkness or the heavy drape of their bedding. But scars were not the only thing he sought to hide. Mixed with the brands of battle, small bruises began to appear. Bruises in places protected by his armor. She had seen the twist of guilt in her husbands face as he had disrobed.
Andromache knew the marks of a lover. She had placed several upon the same shoulder that she saw before her now, as Hector lay momentarily content after their love making.
She watched his face grow firm but distant in the way that it did when he knew he was going to displease her.
“Andromache.” The word was a plea as much as anything else. Andromache just turned to her husband and placed her hand on his bearded cheek. Hector’s next words were halted and pained.
“I had promised… Paris that I would meet with him this night. He has been slacking in his duties to Troy,” the last of his speech was strong.
“Go to him, my love.” Andromache placed a kiss on Hector’s brow. “He needs… instruction.”
Hector nodded faintly; his brow knit in a pattern of indiscernible emotion. He slowly rose to his feet and donned his robes, not looking at his wife. A guilty man facing his private judgment.
As he gathered himself and strode silently to the door, Andromache turned her head away.
“Hector,” her voice was a mourning wail restrained by force of will.
Hector stopped at the heavy oak door but could not turn around.
“I love you, my prince.”
His heart clamped in his chest. His head turned to see where his feet could not lead him.
“And I you… my wife.”
Fin.
