Shakespeare Writes Lemon Fanfiction.
"You are making them do it, aren't you," accused the voice from his doorstep.
"I have no idea what are you talking about, dear Miss," the playwright said, taking a moment to touch the tip of his tongue with his quill, and then starting to write again. "But, if you would like to enlighten this poor, oft befuddled soul...?"
Atalanta growled, baring her teeth, from where she stood in her long bedrobe, pressing a plush bear against an ear and a pillow against the other. "They've never been that noisy! No, scratch that, they've never been doing THAT before, period!"
Caster hummed, vaguely interested. "And you would know this, because...?"
Atalanta indignantly pointed at her nose. "Other than because it's always been obvious he's never been interested on those things before, they've never smelled of what I'm smelling now! I'm not a harlot, true, but that doesn't mean I haven't ever smelt the arousal of others! Every damned would be husband who came to me stunk of it!"
"Is it that much of an issue if they do whatever they are doing behind closed doors?" Caster asked languidly, turning a page and starting on the next.
"My smell isn't the only sense of mine that is superior to yours!" the Archer protested, pulling up on her ears.
"My sympathies," Caster said quite falsely, "but there's nothing I can do about it."
"You are causing it!" Atalanta said. "You're now writing licencious stories, aren't you...!"
"Oh, I am," Caster admitted shamelessly, "but you should know it's not like I could influence them anyway. Most especially not him. There are, sadly, too many limitations to my Noble Phantasm. Truly, not up to the heights of my genius, not that I am complaining..."
"And why should I believe you when you say this?" the Archer sneered.
Caster turned his chair around, then offered the folios he had been working on, spread for her to read. "I submit my works to the critique of my peers. Readily, for I have no shame on the fruits of my ingenuity!"
Atalanta blushed bright crimson, as if a snake had just bitten her. "V-Very well! I believe you! But, but keep that dirty thing away from me...!"
Shakespeare made a truly wounded face as she spun back on her heels and stomped away. "Oh dear. Censorship is one thing, but downright rejection is even worse. Are you sure you don't wish to give it a read, Miss? It could help you release your tensions, so you aren't so bothered..."
"I, I'm not bothered!" Archer cried out, storming down the halls of the Red Faction's fortress and getting as far from the Caster as she could... only to run into a hard, broad chest upon turning a corner.
Achilles, fresh off the bath and with a towel around his waist and another around his shoulders, blinked. "Oh, sorry about that! I wasn't paying attention, there seems to be something in the air tonight..."
Atalanta rubbed herself on the face, sighing. "Don't worry, I guess I was distracted too. Maybe I'm just worried about tomorrow's battle..."
Achilles smiled. "Are you? Don't you worry, I'll be there for you the whole time..."
She frowned at him. "As if that made any difference!"
"You know I will, regardless," he gently offered.
Atalanta's face moved in interesting ways then, as if struggling with some very deep internal conflict, and she finally said, "You know what, let's get out. I challenge you. To a race!"
Back in the Caster's studio, he smirked roguishly, finally lifting his gaze off the pages to look at his invisible audience.
"How do I do it?" he wondered aloud. "Oh, I didn't lie! This is not a tale of the Master and Assassin, I had nothing to do with that one. And my Noble Phantasm has, indeed, many limits! However, as I said, my genius does not. And part of the genius consists of never revealing how it works."
Quite satisfied with himself, William Shakespeare returned to working industriously.
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