#and then of course she would betray him in the end

[slayerdurge]

the brainrot is telling me to do an evil karlach origin play through

[22ayla21]

hii can i request Anaxa x fem reader first kisss? like before they kinda didnt like eachother reader would always call him anaxa instead of anaxagoras like other people and interrupt him whenever they would have debates(?) then one day they were having an argument about something related to alchemy but after the argument both of them realized they had feelings for each other and they just had that awkward period and anaxa breaks the awkward period and the first kiss happens aiebeihaianesh

First Kiss

After many arguments and disagreements, Anaxa decides to take the first step towards reconciliation

Arguments between them were common. Every time Anaxa started talking about something serious, she found a way to interrupt him or throw in a caustic remark. It especially irritated her that everyone around him called him by his full name - Anaxagoras, but to her he was just Anaxa.

- You're arguing with me again, even though you know I'm right, - he said tiredly, crossing his arms over his chest.

- Because you're not always right, - she shrugged, smirking.

This argument, like many others, began because of alchemy. She claimed that combining certain elements would lead to an unstable reaction, and he, of course, was sure of the opposite. Their argument sounded like a bolt from the blue, and the people around had already gotten used to their eternal debates.

But this time it was different. When the argument ended, without leading to anyone's victory, they fell silent. They both felt something strange. As if the air between them had changed, become thicker, more tense.

She suddenly noticed how his eyes never left her, how he moved a little closer. Anaxa was usually cold and reserved, but now... She, too, felt a strange excitement in her chest.

Days passed, and this awkwardness did not go away. They stopped arguing with the same passion, their conversations became shorter, their glances - longer.

She did not know how to cope with this. But he did.

One day, when she again interrupted him in the middle of a sentence, he suddenly fell silent, frowned and stepped closer.

- You always interrupt me, - he said quietly, but this time there was no irritation in his voice.

She was about to respond, but he didn’t give her a chance. His lips covered hers, interrupting her words in the most unexpected and only right way.

Everything else lost its meaning.

She froze, her eyes wide with surprise. Never before had he touched her like this – with confidence, with demand, as if he could no longer hold back. Her mind immediately began to give out a thousand thoughts, but her body betrayed her, responding to his kiss before she could even realize what she was doing.

However, when he pulled away, she took an abrupt step back, pressing her fingers to her lips.

- W-what… - she began, but stopped short when she saw his smirk. Anaxa looked at her as if he had just won the most important argument of their lives.

- I guess you couldn’t interrupt me this time, - he said with lazy smugness. Her cheeks flushed. She clenched her fists, trying to think of a sharp remark, but her voice failed her, caught somewhere in her throat.

- You… You…

- Me? - He raised an eyebrow, watching her confusion with obvious pleasure. She was ready to blurt out something, maybe even hit him, but instead she simply snorted and turned away, crossing her arms over her chest.

- I hate you.

He chuckled, taking a step closer.

- Of course.

She could feel his warmth behind her. And even though her words sounded confident, her heart was pounding wildly, betraying her true feelings.

[teriri-sayes]

Reactions to The Light's Chapter 421

Brief summary: Cale's group escapes. The twins decide to escape too. Cale realizes that the hunters now knew of his involvement. Cale proposes a main quest to System AI. Alberu is pretending to be asleep like Cale too.

==========

The leader of the jungle's dark elves was the Witch, but she was not here. Rather, it was her right hand person who was present. That dark elf told the other Hellhole forces that Cale's group were their allies and that the GoC cult and wanderers were enemies. Afterwards, they helped Cale's group escape.

The twin wanderers let Cale's group escape, not wanting to turn the entire Hellhole into an enemy. But they figured out Cale's identity, recognizing him as the main culprit behind the failure of the White Star Project.

They also suspected Cale to be a transcendent, a godlike being who was not bound by any name and had transcended all limitations by being themselves. 😂😂😂 So they thought of leaving Cale to their leader, the FW, who was on the way to becoming a transcendent.

Of course, since the GoC cult betrayed them, Ryeon killed one surviving bishop before escaping the place. The Hellhole residents dealt with the GoC cult survivors.

Cale thought it was a problem that the hunters recognized him, and thought of a diversion. He would show his face in the Demon Realm. After all, he needed to save CJG. As for the hunters, he thought of pitting the game users against the Five-Colored Bloods in the game via a main quest.

He suggested that to System AI, and the AI accepted it. The main quest name he proposed for it though was... "The Birth of a Hero." 😂😂😂

Unfortunately for Alberu, it seemed like he was also having his own legend and birth of a hero. 🤣🤣🤣

The next day. “Uh… um…….” Cale looked up. A pure white space, holy and beautiful. Brilliant sunlight streamed in from a hole in the ceiling, enveloping Cale and Alberu. “Th-This can't be happening- No way!” “Ah, the sun!” Boom! The paladin, Sir Boltien, in a fit of passion, fell to his knees in prayer. Sniff. The saintess wept. The pope was already wailing loudly. “Alas, this warm light! So dazzling that it almost blinds the eyes yet its gentle touch brings the only warmth from the cold! Alas, the sun, the most splendid, beautiful, and wonderful sun in the world! The sun, the suuuuuuuuunnnnn!" He almost cried out. And this Pope talking was not unusual. “Sniff.” “Aaaah-” Behind the three of them, in a circle of space, the bishops were kneeling. In the center of the circle. Where the light shone. There, Cale sat meekly beside the still unconscious Alberu. 'How did this happen?' . . . “Ah, the loving sunlight that reminds me of my mother's touch as she stroked me as a newborn eighty years ago- Ah, I will dedicate this body and throw everything I have at this sun!” Cale thought, as he listened to the pope's exuberant exclamation. 'I'm tired.' I'm already tired of this. Shake. 'Huh?' Cale, who had been sitting quietly on his knees, glanced sideways. Shake. Alberu's closed eyelids twitched. 'Oh.' The corners of Cale's mouth turned up. 'He's awake, but he's not getting up.' Perhaps, he must be trying to figure out the situation now. “Heh.” Alberu's body shivered slightly at Cale's uncontrollable laughter. Looking at him like that, Cale remembered what had happened yesterday.

Alberu pretending to be asleep too. 😂😂😂 And why was the Sun God church's pope here? Why were the Sun God church clergy crying as if in worship at the lying Alberu who was being shined down by a sunlight beam? 🤣🤣🤣

Ending Remarks Alberu on the start of his hero journey. 😂 Next chapter would be Alberu finally waking up. I look forward to his reaction at the Sun God church NPCs. 😂

[noiranamnesis]

Let him flounder. Let him flounder. A mantra repeated in Françoise's mind. It's his client, after all. Right?

Miss Anderson remained in her seat, unwavering as she observed Monsieur Wright more closely. There was something rather eclectic about this man- though she figured his sort were all a bit strange in the end. Why else take up this line of work? But still...However, if her needs were met, it wasn't anything to fret over. It wasn't as if she intended to invite him over for social gatherings in the future. “...And when will you be back?”

“In one week’s time." Françoise replied, appearing her side, a hand held out to offer assistance. "We'll return in the evening and can begin working on your case the following morning.”

"Is it better to drop off the documents or mail them?" Miss Anderson glanced between the two, her voice betraying a hint of impatience as she slowly stood.

"I'd recommend handing them to someone you trust for delivery. Once I have them, I'll call your line so you know exactly how long it took."

"Excellent. And if you need to reach me—"

"I'll introduce myself as a seamstress when I call," Françoise answered, her voice calm. Why? Well, It was unlikely anyone would question the call of a seamstress.

"Very good." Miss Anderson allowed Françoise to help her into her coat, the faintest trace of approval in her voice. "Send all invoices under the name of the seamstress as well."

"Of course, Miss Anderson." Françoise took the empty mug and held the door open for her. "Have a pleasant evening."

The moment Miss Anderson disappeared behind the door, Françoise paused- silently counting to fifteen before locking it. Professionalism had its place, but so did her growing frustrations. To administer his 'stabilizer' was simple, but the man himself...was a different manner entirely. She moved quietly to the closet and returned with a first aid kit, setting it on the desk. With a practiced hand, she flipped it open, revealing what she considered the simplest part of her work.

She didn't dignify him with a word. There was no need for idle chatter. She simply rolled up his sleeve and wiped the area with alcohol. Her hands were steady, practiced. The act had become second nature. The needle came next- measuring the dose with careful precision before pressing the tip into his skin.

In hindsight, she understood why others might think her suited for nursing, but the thought of such a profession unsettled her. She wasn't particularly interested in treating wounds. She would rather immerse herself in art, creating and shaping something beautiful.

And which art piece would he be?

It was a habit of hers, this tendency to connect the people in her life to art. But in this, the thought of associating him with any of works felt almost sacrilegious. She had no desire to make him an artistic subject, no wish to weave his presence into her world. She wanted to finish this task- this thankless task- and leave for the airport as soon as possible. If he elected not to go, then that was fine. She had already resolved that she could leave him behind without so much as a single word.

Once finished, she applied a light bandage, moving on to methodically pack away her supplies. There was a certain satisfaction in having things in order. Almost everything. Her gaze flicked toward the kitchen. The dishes.

With a glance at the time, she stashed the first aid kit away and moved to the kitchen, scrubbing the last of the dishes, leaving only his glass of water and mug of unwashed. She picked up the glass she had technically “borrowed” earlier and poured its contents down the drain. She couldn’t drink it now. He likely wouldn’t either, not with her germs lingering, or due to his general distaste for her presence.

As the mug is brought to his side, he flashes Françoise a tense smile, nodding in thanks before quickly picking it up and taking a long gulp. It stings, makes him cough again, and he winces slightly before managing another,much slower sip. He clears his throat, then returns his focus to his client.

Her explanation gains no response from him initially, not even a quirk of his brow. He just has that cold, blank stare, fingertips pressed together and slowly tapping against his chin in deep thought. He's piecing it all together, everything she's laid out. Sure, there's not a lot for him to use to solve anything just yet, but that didn't stop him from trying. From analysing. Getting whatever clues he could and putting them in succinct order and understanding in his mind. Eyes close for a moment, as if contemplating whether or not he wants to take the case.

"I'll need information on your fiancé. Your family's business and his...anything you can provide. Any suspects, anyone else who might be witness or accomplice, everything." He speaks briskly, bluntly, perhaps as if he's just trying to end the conversation altogether. Get her out. There's a bead of sweat forming on his temple, though it's hidden beneath his unruly mess of curls. Fuck.

"Bring it to me in succinct written form and I'll get started on an investigation immediately. I'll need to visit the house where these supernatural occurences are rumoured as well. I'm going out of town for the next few days, but when I return Ms. Beauséjour will set up a time for us to--" The words stop at the tip of his tongue. He freezes, closes his mouth tightly to avoid stuttering. They try to play it off by clearing their throat, tugging slightly at the collar of their shirt. "Meet. Find out just how falsified these rumours really are." They wave a hand towards the door, blinking back the haze in their vision.

"I trust you can handle all that before I return from my trip." A flicker of his gaze towards Françoise urges her to open the door for Miss Anderson, to rush her leave a little without being too obvious.

[rune-tisms]

wanted to make a post expanding on my sofia the first au: fia the worst, just for fun's sake ^_^ in the au, cedric is intrigued by this copy of sofia and wants to keep her around, so he lies and says she can only be destroyed with a potion. this way, he can escort her back to his tower, where he can propose the idea of the copy helping him take over the kingdom. she accepts without hesitation, thrilled to have a chance to do something so disruptive. cedric then swiftly decides to call her fia, so that things wouldn't be confusing. fia's amulet allows whoever is wearing it the ability to talk to animals, since when sofia duplicated herself, that power was active, so to speak, so it duplicated (listen i'm working with the plot hole as best i can). cedric begins using the copy of the amulet to speak properly with wormwood. the three of them concoct a plan to steal sofia's amulet; fia will pretend to be sofia after sofia herself has already gone to bed. that way, she can get into her room without being questioned. once inside, she would be careful not to wake sofia or her animal friends as she takes the amulet of avalor. after securing it, she would open the window, where wormwood would be waiting. he can then take the amulet back to cedric. fia will then hide somewhere in sofia's room until morning time, wait for her and her animal friends to leave, then sneak back to cedric's tower. fia wants to enact the plan as soon as possible, but cedric is wary. there are many things that could go wrong, and he wants them to wait a little while for the perfect opportunity, whatever that looks like to him. in the weeks following, fia gets bored a lot so cedric takes her into town to entertain her. fia was the one to suggest that he change her hair to look like his, so that she could be mistaken for his niece. the most fun fia can have, though, is messing with cedric. because in the episode where she makes her appearance she figured out so fast that he wanted the amulet, i choose to headcanon that fia is more perceptive of cedric than sofia, either for magical reasons or not. fia quickly catches on to cedric's soft spot for sofia, and abuses the fact that she is a version of sofia constantly. i'm pretty certain that i want to make fia betray cedric somehow after they manage to take over the kingdom, and he'll somewhat redeem himself by helping sofia to defeat her. i hope i actually make more for this au i actually like it a lot.

[icebluecyanide]

Thinking about how Alex talks about how 'we come in at the end of the shift" when he discusses how to get into Mrs Jones's flat, as if he isn't going in alone, and now I want an AU where Yassen comes with him and is there when he confronts Mrs Jones

[themoonking]

finally finished the priory of the orange tree after putting it off for like a year, and putting aside the fact that it's insanely boring, way too long, and the romance is lackluster, it certainly was a choice to, in a book at least in part about finding common ground and coming together, basically go "religion a is correct and good and its believers can continue on their merry lives, but religion b is a 100% incorrect wrong bad lie founded by a wrong bad misogynistic lying liar, and everyone who believes in it should convert and in fact we're going to end the book by heavily implying that the recently-converted queen is going to slowly but surely pressure the entire country to convert because their faith is wrong and bad". like that was certainly a decision that samantha shannon made.

[davey-in-a-minivan]

EPISODE 10 PROPAGANDA!!! listen the pasithea powder scholarly convention debated this one for hours last night but i personally have to pick 10 bc of the way it revels in the sheer breadth of drama of the show's premise and also it makes me feel like the top of my head's going to lift off

>really love that we see the other as anna alegros first so we can see how EFFECTIVELY it zeroes in on the chinks in david alegros' armor and sends him running, and jane is much calmer but immediately there's the question of how will she fare once subject theta's attention is on her?

>also jane insisting on treating it like a patient and not a test subject without knowing if that's right but erring on the side of a little dignity!! and in defiance of blanc who doesn't treat HER with dignity!! jane's also a prisoner of the queensguard!!

>i think my heart STOPPED the first time i heard this it's so fluid it's so fucking fuck fuck fuck i need to relisten again right now

>othersophie's appearance is brief but so so mighty. this is the first instinctive thing the other thinks will give jane pause!!! this is who she's afraid of hurting!!! and othersophie pulled from jane's mind is so much more disgusted and betrayed by jane than real sophie ever is..... delicious fucking angst

>THE WAY JANE SAYS THAT LAST OH!!! less a word and more an exhale punched out of her!!!! yeah!!!!!!!!! god!!!!! me too!!!!!!!

>bc look ive never predicted a plot twist in my life but i didn't predict the other turning into evelyn!!! it turned into sophie and i was like of course, sophie's turned into jane, the soulmateism and then oh

>the way the reveal is done in an AUDIO MEDIUM is fantastically cool, the transformation- shock- recognition in the next few lines land as hard as any visual reveal could have like it is just enthralling sorry it's almost embarrassing gushing this much in a public forum but this scene is just SOMETHING ELSE

>also blanc follows this up with "you knew it was going to do this" which makes me think of sophie's "mm. that makes sense" when jane later says who the other turned into where, like, yeah, this makes a lot of sense but that doesn't soften the blow. i don't know if anything could!

>fascinating to see how theta's strategy changes over the course of the conversation. at first it says things like "you're seriously going to do this to everyone you love??" which are clearly meant to wound by being delivered in evelyn's voice but isn't something he would say--he never knew she dosed sophie with pasithea!! for obvious cause effect reasons!! but at the twelve hour mark (once the memory of the other as anna and sophie is more distant and they've both calmed down some) it starts talking like it really might convince her it's evelyn. and jane starts to slip. references arguments "we've had before." says "that's something you--he--would do"

>LET'S FUCKING GO.

>YOU HEAR THIS AND FEAR FOR JANE FOR BEING FOOLED. WRONG FEAR!!!

>and then she says. be evelyn. 🧨🧨🧨

>theta starting to get scared, jane becoming almost flippant! theta referring to evelyn in the third person and jane saying "you"!! the mundane fucking tragedy of no last goodbye!!!!!

>SORRY JANE BUT THIS IS SO SEXY

>this followed up by "I do know you. I know you died trying to help other people. You wanted to--protect Medean kids, and--Cassandran soldiers, and--your death didn’t mean anything. You didn’t end the war, Evelyn. I ended the war." IS CRAZY

>jane deserves a god complex!!!!

>it's so so gripping to see jane -- who tries to be moral! who cares deeply about other people and doesn't want to do harm! -- justify something horrifying to herself because she has been pushed to such an extreme of grief and she has the power in her hands!!!

>absolutely haunting

>that stage direction KILLS ME!!!!!!! she thinks it worked!!! she thinks she managed the impossible and undid the worst thing that ever happened to her!!!! with raw hope!!!!!

>does it make it better or worse that he lives for a minute?? that for a minute it's just evelyn?? that he has a chance to hug her before blanc shoots him dead??

>it's just so brutal. i feel like i need to go stare at the wall for a few hours

>she did get swept up in a fantasy but can you blame her? grabs blanc by the shoulders and shakes him like a rag doll. can you blame her??? YOU ALL MADE HER DO THIS. SHE'S TWENTY FOUR AND ALONE

>the compactness of this episode is so satisfying. one recording, beginning to end. it feels like a play!!!

in conclusion. what in the holy fuck of an episode. theta is not the only one getting his brain chemistry irreversibly changed by this conversation!!!!!!!!!

Onwards and upwards with Pasithea Pandemonium! I expect this matchup, like the Sophie matchup, will be pure carnage. It's Episode 10, "Evelyn," vs. Episode 23, "Fix It."

[oveliagirlhaditright]

But one very dark and sad thing, if you choose to consider the Buffy and Angel books canon is this:

In the novels, while Giles never meets Fred, Buffy, Xander, Tara, and Dawn do. And they all like her. Tara and Fred in particular really hit it off. As, of course, do Fred and Willow, who meet in Angel the Series (they actually meet before that in the books, which actually maybe explains some things, perhaps: like why Fred thinks to call Willow when Angel loses his soul).

And Giles still refuses to help her when Illyria is possessing her during that plot in "Angel"--because he no longer trusts Angel Investigations since they're working for Wolfram & Hart. And, to be honest, for revenge on Angel--and Fred dies. And Fred, of course, was an innocent. And the sweetest girl you'd ever meet.

[fushitoru]

a song of past romance a royal / greek au gojo fic

pairing ⸺ suitor/king!gojo x princess!reader

summary ⸺ king gojo satoru of ithaca travels to sparta, seeking to win over who they say is the most beautiful mortal woman's heart. so when he sees you upon his arrival weaving under an olive tree, looking goddess-sent, he immediately loses the plot and concludes that it must be you that the tales and legends must talk about. it is not, but gojo has chosen who his queen will be. as gojo continues to break down your walls with his endless devotion and silver tongue, you must decide: will you let duty and your loved ones's expectations decide your fate, or will you choose the man who would defy even the heavens to claim you as his queen ?

warnings ⸺ smut, p i v sex, oral f recieving, whimpering gojo agenda <3, fluff, a big of angst if you squint, some insecurity, pining, banterTM, gojo is really whipped for reader, odypen inspired (this one's for my epic/pjo baddies), extensive greek mythology knowledge not needed, athena is tired of gojo lol, jealousy, helen is a sassy diva, not totally accurate to the lore of the illiad bc i just use the premise, mentions of children/pregnancy at the end if you squint, semi edited, art by @/yunonoaii

a/n my hyperfixation made me write this lol. you dont need to know anything about greek mythology to read this fic it's more of a period piece / royal au :3

general masterlist

You had registered the young man’s presence for quite some time now.

Ever since your beloved cousin Helen—the most beautiful woman in the world, the kallikomos, kalliparēios Helen—had come of age, your palace had been plagued by an unceasing tide of suitors. Even a respite alone in the garden, in peace, was not guaranteed to you; just as the ivory haired suitor (who thought himself furitive) that had been sneaking and skirting around you for a while now, there were countless of men on the palace grounds desperate to even get a glimpse of what the countless legends and tales about Helen had described. 

Though, you weren’t jealous of your lovely cousin—you loved her to death. But it was getting on your nerves, because you had hoped for a quiet evening relaxing under the olive tree you were sitting in. This mn, however, was different.

For some time now, the ivory-haired suitor had been skirting the edges of your sanctuary, moving as though he thought himself invisible. You could feel his gaze, sharp and intent, as you alternated between weaving and reading. His persistence should have irritated you. And yet, there was something amusing about his poor attempt at stealth.

The telltale rustle of grass betrayed him once again. You sighed, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before reaching up to gather it all, baring the curve of your neck to the evening breeze.

The stalker suitor tripped with a loud thud.

You blinked. Then, sighing once more, you set down your spindle and turned. "I know you’re there," you called, unimpressed.

Silence, then a low chuckle.

When he finally stepped into the open, your disinterested gaze lifted—and promptly widened.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. The build of a warrior, yet the face of a prince. A mischievous, almost boyish charm softened the sharp lines of his features, but his striking blue eyes gleamed with something untamed.

Helen would have a field day with him. Like that one thing she said about how she looovedd versatile men, the ones that could manhandle you but also whimper. Or whatever. 

Then, to your utter shock, he dropped to one knee, extending his hand toward you in a bold gesture of devotion. His demeanor was confident, but you saw him sporting a hue of pink on his cheeks. It was rather cute, but any feelings of fondness disappeared at his next words.

"O’ Helen—" the suitor began, his voice rich with reverence, "fairest of all women, whose beauty outshines even the dawn—"

You exhaled sharply through your nose. Of course.

"—permit me but a moment to bask in your radiance, for no mortal man could gaze upon you and remain unchanged—"

Your fingers curled tightly around the threads of your spindle.

"—grant me the honor of—"

"Try again," you cut in, your voice deceptively sweet.

The suitor paused mid-sentence, blinking up at you.

"Pardon?"

You raised an unimpressed brow, tilting your head. "If you’re going to wax poetic, you might at least direct it toward the right woman."

His lips parted, then pressed into a puzzled frown. He tilted his head, sharp blue eyes scanning your face as if trying to decipher a riddle. "But… you are Helen," he said slowly, as if testing the words.

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. "Afraid not."

A pause.

His gaze flickered over you again, as if he could will you into being Helen just by staring hard enough. "Are you sure?"

You gave him a look. "I would hope I know my own name."

His brows drew together, clearly struggling to process this revelation. "But you’re—you’re sitting under an olive tree, looking vaguely divine. Your hair caught the light just now in a way that seemed very… goddess-sent. You have the whole tragic air of someone who is probably devastatingly beautiful and sought after by hundreds."

You blinked, trying to fight the heat creeping up your neck. You shouldn’t be affected by his bromides, for his words must be a ploy to gain back his image after offending you. "Is that supposed to be an apology?"

He squinted. "More like a logical assessment of my mistake."

You sighed. "Well, your 'logical assessment' is incorrect."

He sat back on his heels, regarding you with blatant skepticism. "I don’t know," he said slowly. "I came here for Helen. You’re here. And you're lovely. Seems like a very Helen thing to do."

You gave him a flat stare in return. "What, exist?"

"Exactly."

You rolled your eyes. "I see why they make you fight instead of think."

At that, the suitor huffed a short laugh, his earlier embarrassment giving way to something more amused, more interested. "Alright," he conceded, crossing his arms over his knee. "If you aren’t Helen, then who are you?"

You leaned back against the tree, allowing yourself a small, satisfied smirk. "The woman you just proposed to by accident."

He blinked. Then groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "The gods are laughing at me."

"As they should," you replied smoothly.

To your surprise, he grinned. "That makes two of us, then," he mused, tilting his head at you. "I get the feeling you enjoy seeing men suffer."

A non committal hum from you. “Maybe, maybe not.” With that, you began weaving once more, giving him the signal that his presence and platitudes were no longer needed.  

Yet, he remained.

You could feel his gaze lingering, heavy with an amusement that refused to wane. He had the look of someone thoroughly entertained, and that irritated you more than anything. Having conversed with him, you knew he was sharper than the average suitor—quick-witted, quicker still to recover from his blunders. Though he had not done anything to overtly suggest it, there was something about him that set him apart. It was a feeling—an air around him, something god-graced.

You paid it no mind.

He had not meant for you to be the one on the receiving end of his affection, and it would do you no good to cling to a man who had come here seeking another. He was meant to lose his mind over Helen, not take interest in you.

"Tell me your name," he said suddenly, breaking the silence.

You didn't pause in your weaving. "Why?"

A short huff of laughter. "I figure if I’m already embarrassing myself in front of a woman, I should at least know which one."

You shot him a sidelong glance, unimpressed. "Bold of you to assume you’ll be staying long enough for it to matter."

His grin deepened. "Well, now I have to stay, just to prove you wrong."

You sighed, shaking your head. "You’re insufferable."

"I’ve been told worse," he admitted. Then, leaning forward just slightly, he added, "Though never by a woman whose name I don’t know."

You lifted a brow at him, unimpressed. "And do you have a name, then, mysterious suitor?"

His expression shifted, something proud yet teasing gleaming in those striking blue eyes.

"Gojo Satoru," he declared, as if it should mean something to you. "Of Ithaca."

You hummed, as if considering. "Never heard of it."

He blinked, then scoffed. "Never heard of Ithaca?" He placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. "A land of brilliant minds, fierce warriors, and some say the most handsome men to ever walk the earth—"

"Ah," you interjected, dry. "That explains it."

He smirked. "Explains what?"

"Why I’ve never heard of it."

A beat of silence. Then, to your dismay, he laughed—fully, unabashedly, as if you’d just handed him the greatest gift in the world.

You huffed, returning your attention to your weaving. "Now that you have a name to be proud of, surely you can be on your way."

"Not yet," he said, far too easily.

You didn’t look up. "Why?"

"Because you haven’t given me yours."

You didn’t miss the way his voice dipped, taking on something smoother, something more coaxing. He was trying to charm it out of you, as if your name was a prize worth winning.

"Perhaps I simply don’t wish to give it," you mused, feigning disinterest.

"Perhaps you’re afraid," he countered.

You did look up at that, leveling him with an unimpressed stare. "Afraid?"

He shrugged, utterly unbothered. "That if I know your name, I’ll never forget it." His gaze flickered to your hands, to the weaving that had slowed ever so slightly. "And maybe… neither will you."

You forced yourself to resume your work, your fingers steady despite the odd flutter in your chest. "You think too highly of yourself, Gojo Satoru of Ithaca."

"I’m told it’s my greatest flaw," he admitted, smirking. "Well—one of many."

You ignored him, the rhythmic motion of your weaving serving as a convenient distraction.

Gojo exhaled, as if relenting—though something told you he was nowhere near finished with you. He rocked back on his heels, eyeing you with unconcealed interest. "Alright, mystery woman," he drawled. "If you won’t give me your name, I suppose I’ll have to keep guessing."

You didn't dignify that with a response.

But somehow, you knew—this would not be the last time Gojo Satoru of Ithaca sought you out.

He had yet to claim your name.

No matter how cunningly he pried, no matter how sweetly he coaxed, you remained steadfast, denying him that small but significant victory.

Satoru had undoubtedly set sail for Sparta in search of a worthy challenge and a faithful bride—but he had not expected to find both in one woman. You were a puzzle, divine and elusive, a riddle spun by the Fates themselves. And for a man who relished the thrill of unraveling mysteries, you were the most captivating enigma he had ever encountered.

Not since the day he bested the enchanted boar—a feat that had drawn Athena’s keen eye and earned him her favor—had he felt such a rush.

He’d dare say you were the first one he’s felt an affinity for, despite the countless of women and candidates he had faced ever since becoming the king of Ithaca.

But before he could ponder more on the thought, he sensed a presence, tensing immediately. Heavy-set footsteps, trying to be quiet in the hallway they were both in.

Satoru crossed his arms, halted where he was. “I know you’re there.”

A laugh barked out in a deep voice. “Perceptive like they say, Gojo Satoru of Ithaca.” 

Satoru watched as Toji Fushiguro sauntered toward him, his movements unhurried, yet carrying the unmistakable confidence of a seasoned warrior. The man was broad-shouldered, his presence commanding, the kind of brute who could cleave a man in half with a single swing of his blade. Yet his grin—sharp, knowing—held more calculation than recklessness.

Toji came to a stop before him, arms crossed, weight shifted onto one foot like he had all the time in the world, smirking. "No wonder Athena’s got her eye on you."

Satoru tilted his head, feigning nonchalance. "I do have a way of impressing gods and mortals alike," he mused. "Though I imagine you didn’t come all this way just to admire me."

“Just assessing the competition,” Toji hums in response, eyes still assessing Satoru. He was trying to plan three steps ahead; unfortunately for him, Satoru was ten steps ahead. 

“There is no competition,” comes Satoru’s cool response. 

Toji studied Satoru for a moment, his sharp green eyes narrowing slightly. Then, with an amused scoff, he asked, "You’re not here to fight for Helen’s hand? Are you crazy?”

Satoru let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as if the very thought was amusing. "Helen?" he echoed, letting the name roll from his tongue with deliberate care. He lifted a hand, absently brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. "No, I’m afraid I have no interest in her."

Toji studied him, eyes narrowing. "She’s the most beautiful woman in the world."

Satoru did not deny it. "So they say."

"And yet," Toji pressed, his tone skeptical, "you aren’t here for her?"

Satoru finally looked at him properly, his head tilting, his gaze alight with something teasing, something unreadable. "Not in the way you are." He let the words settle between them before continuing, his tone almost indulgent. "You’re welcome to her."

Toji’s mouth pressed into a thin line. His instincts told him Satoru was not lying, yet something about the Ithacan’s expression, the way he carried himself, the glint in those striking blue eyes—it all made him wary. He had met many warriors in his time, but this was no brute with a sword, no hotheaded prince desperate to claim a prize.

Satoru Gojo was something else entirely.

"So what is it, then?" Toji asked, crossing his arms tighter, his voice edged with suspicion. "You sailed all this way, and for what? A festival?"

Satoru’s smirk deepened, his expression inscrutable. "Let’s just say Sparta has given me a rather interesting puzzle."

Toji scoffed but let it drop, running a hand through his dark hair. "Whatever," he muttered. "If you're really not here for Helen, then maybe you can help me."

Satoru hummed in vague interest. "Oh?"

"I intend to win her," Toji stated plainly. "But I could use an extra hand in ensuring things go my way."

Satoru did not answer immediately. Instead, he turned his gaze upward, as though admiring the vaulted ceilings of the hall, as though considering some grander design that only he could see. Then, with the ease of a man wholly unbothered by the concerns of others, he exhaled through his nose, the beginnings of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

"Don't worry about it," he said at last, his voice rich with something almost too smooth, too assured. "Everything is already falling into place."

Toji stiffened slightly at the words, his war-honed instincts bristling at their implication. He did not like things he could not predict, and Gojo Satoru of Ithaca was proving to be as unreadable as the gods themselves.

His brows lowered. "And what the hell does that mean?"

But Satoru only laughed, turning on his heel, the faintest shimmer of torchlight catching in his silver-white hair.

"Guess you’ll just have to wait and see."

And with that, he strode off, his footsteps unhurried, leaving Toji standing in the flickering shadows, frowning after him.

The great hall of Sparta was alive with the clash of bronze and the roars of men. The suitors, assembled from all corners of Greece, fought with a desperation that could only belong to those who sought glory and the hand of Helen. Blades flashed, spears thrust, and the resounding clamor of shields meeting shields filled the air like the din of battle.

Satoru Gojo of Ithaca stood at the edge of the fray, watching with a detached amusement. He had not drawn his blade, nor did he so much as feign interest in the chaos unfolding before him. Instead, his arms were loosely crossed, his posture relaxed, his sharp blue gaze studying each warrior as though they were mere pieces on a game board.

Meanwhile, you and Helen watched from the shade of a marble colonnade, seated atop a cushioned bench where servants had arranged fruits and wine for the both of you. But neither of you reached for the offerings; your gazes remained transfixed on the chaos below.

You shook your head at the ridiculous display. "It must be nice to be fought for by so many men," you murmured, resting your chin in your palm.

Helen sighed daintily—in a way that was so typically Helen it made you smile fondly—her hair catching the afternoon light like threads spun from the sun itself. “I will admit that it has its advantages.”

You cast her a dry look before gesturing at the men below. “Helen,” you shook your head, sighing exasperatedly, “they’re savages. They’re beating each other senselessly. Does this not disgust you?” Instead, your cousin’s beautiful lips curled up in a knowing smile, teasing you, “Jealous, my dear cousin?”

“No.” But the answer came a little too quickly, a little too defensively. The yells and violence was a display of brutishness—but you would not be truthful to yourself if you didn’t admit that you were a bit envious of the attention your cousin was getting. 

However, one would be a fool to confuse your sentiments for bitterness—as a princess yourself, there were no shortage of men who would be here to get you as a prize, if they did not get Helen. No shortage of men wondering who is he? Who is the man who’ll have the princess as his wife?

But unfortunately, it seemed that your father, the Spartan king Icarius, had other plans, for he would not let any man be your husband so easily. In fact, he did not wish you to marry and be taken away from him.

It was safe to say that not much male attention was on you due to this obstacle.

Helen showed no reaction to your response, but only hummed. “This fighting—sooner or later, you’re going to be in my shoes. You’re going to have to choose at one point, too, my dear.” 

“Says who?” You scoffed, turning your eyes back to the courtyard. “Do not forget Helen, these men want power. Power so they can tower above each other, place themselves above all others.”

Helen shrugged. “So what?”

You shook your head. “Silly Helen. Wouldn’t you prefer some intellectual prowess over some…savage?”  

Before Helen could reply, a shift in the air drew both of your attention back to the courtyard.

The chaos had stilled, if only for a moment. A singular figure stood at the center of it all, his ivory hair catching the wind, his stance languid yet poised.

That suitor.

The gathered nobles whispered among themselves, exchanging glances as Satoru approached the high table where the King of Sparta, Tyndareus, sat watching. The aged king stroked his beard, his expression unreadable as the Ithacan prince stopped before him, offering a bow that barely concealed the glint of mischief in his eyes.

"Your Majesty," Satoru began smoothly, "it seems we have our victor. But before we move forward, I believe there is an agreement that must be made."

The murmurs in the hall grew louder. Tyndareus narrowed his eyes slightly. "Speak, Gojo of Ithaca."

Satoru straightened, clasping his hands behind his back. "These men have come from every kingdom in Greece, each seeking the honor of marrying your daughter. Such a prize, however, comes with its dangers. Whoever wins Helen’s hand will earn not just her love but the envy and ire of the rest." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the hall. "If left unchecked, this jealousy could lead to war."

Tyndareus’s jaw tightened. It was a concern he himself had harbored, though few had dared to speak it outright.

Satoru’s lips curled at the edges, his voice turning smooth, persuasive. "I propose an oath. Let every suitor here, whether victorious or defeated, swear allegiance to Helen’s chosen husband. Let them vow, upon the gods, to uphold this union and defend it should any outside force seek to undo it. In doing so, Sparta ensures peace among the great kingdoms, rather than sows the seeds of discord."

Silence fell over the hall. The assembled nobles exchanged glances, the weight of the proposal heavy in the air. Even Toji, ever the warrior, raised a brow in consideration.

Tyndareus studied Satoru for a long moment, his fingers tapping against the armrest of his throne. Then, slowly, he nodded. "You are wise beyond your years, Gojo of Ithaca. Your proposal is sound. Let it be done."

A herald stepped forward, calling for the gathered suitors to kneel. One by one, they bent the knee, placing their hands over their hearts, swearing their loyalty to Helen’s future husband, binding themselves to an oath that would shape the course of history.

As the final echoes of the vow rang through the hall, Satoru turned his gaze to Toji, his smirk deepening ever so slightly. The pieces were falling into place, just as he had foreseen.

Meanwhile, in your place—where you and Helen were spectating the whole event away from common sight—Helen nudged you slightly, voice hushed in interest you hadn’t seen her display for any suitor yet. “Did you see that—the way he sweet talked my father?” Her gentle eyes widened in a way that could kill a man. “Who is he?”

You had no answer. Because, truthfully, you were wondering the same thing.

The palace gardens were quiet at this hour, bathed in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. The scent of myrrh and olive trees lingered in the air, mixing with the faint salt of the distant sea. You sat with Helen beneath the shade of a vine-laden pergola, her back pressed against your legs as you wove your fingers through her silken strands, carefully braiding them into an intricate plait.

Helen, ever the restless one, sighed dramatically. “Do you suppose I should be flattered or terrified?”

You didn’t have to ask what she meant. The courtyard had been in an uproar for hours after the suitors’ oath had been sworn. Servants gossiped in hushed tones, and noblewomen tittered behind their veils. The future queen of Sparta had just gained the loyalty of every warrior present—whether she wanted it or not.

“Why not both?” you mused, separating another section of her hair.

Helen laughed, tossing her head slightly. “It is one thing to be the object of admiration. It is quite another to be the cause of bloodshed.”

You hummed in acknowledgment, though your fingers stilled when she spoke again, voice full of mischief.

“Did you see him?”

You resumed braiding. “Who?”

Helen turned just enough to throw you an incredulous look. “Who?” she repeated, mockingly. “As if you do not know exactly who I speak of. Gojo Satoru of Ithaca.��

You clicked your tongue. “Oh, him.”

“Oh, him?” Helen scoffed. “Do not play coy, cousin. He commanded that entire courtyard without lifting a blade.”

You smiled, but she could not see you. “That only proves he is cunning,” you pointed out, keeping your voice neutral.

“That proves he is powerful,” Helen countered, shifting as you tugged lightly at her braid. “He held those men in the palm of his hand.”

Barking out a laugh, you continued your work. “Or perhaps he simply enjoys hearing himself speak.”

Helen laughed, tilting her head back against your lap. “You wound me with your dullness. Do you not see? There was something about him. He has the air of a man accustomed to winning.”

You tried not to scowl. Of course he did.

And if Helen had her eye on him, there was no chance for you.

The thought settled in your chest like a stone.

It was not as though you had entertained any hopes—but you were not blind. The way he had looked at you in the hallways, the way he had tried to coax your name from you, the way he had seemed amused by your defiance. It had sparked something treacherous inside of you, something unspoken and foolish.

Because no man, no matter how powerful or wise, would ever choose you over Helen.

You forced your thoughts aside and tightened the braid. “And what of Toji Fushiguro?” you asked lightly, forcing the subject to change. “I noticed you watching him as well.”

Helen hummed, pleased with the shift in conversation. “A brute, but a striking one. I imagine he fights as well as he looks.”

You snorted. “I imagine he thinks with his fists.”

“All the better,” Helen teased. “I should not mind a warrior who throws me over his shoulder and carries me off.”

You rolled your eyes, but you giggled regardless. “You are insufferable.”

Helen twisted, kneeling so that you were now face to face. She reached for your hair, her fingers beginning to weave it into a braid of your own.

“You say I am insufferable, but you have yet to deny that Gojo Satoru is worth admiring,” she murmured.

You sighed exasperatedly, looking anywhere except for your cousin’s eyes. “Must we discuss this?”

Helen’s fingers worked deftly, her expression smug. “It is only natural to discuss the most intriguing men.”

“And yet I am sure you are doing it to torment me.”

“Perhaps a little.” Helen’s grin softened as she studied you. “You would not be so opposed to him if you did not find him interesting.”

You swallowed, looking away. “That is not—”

“You braid my hair with such care,” she interrupted, looping another section of yours. “And yet, you guard your own thoughts as if I am the enemy.”

You closed your eyes briefly, inhaling the scent of lavender and sun-warmed stone. Helen had always been perceptive when she wished to be.

“There is nothing to guard,” you murmured.

Helen merely smiled, finishing your braid with a satisfied tug.

But the knowing look in her eyes unsettled you more than any battle in the courtyard ever could.

Despite coming for Helen, Satoru continuously seeks your presence.

Your presence is intoxicating, even the smallest of glimpses of you enough to induce a feeling, one he’d liken to eating the gods’ ambrosia or drinking the finest nectar. Every time he saw you, it was passing moments in the hallways of the palace or sneaked glances while you were in the garden—your chin up, posture proud. Your eyes downcast as if you had no interest in the countless of men among you. The light only returned when you were weaving, or discussing with your cousin.

But Satoru had not been able to see you more than just those miniscule, fleeting moments—it was your accursed father that kept an eye on you during dinners, his withered glare threatening all suitors, as if to remind them: You’re here for Helen, and keep my daughter out of this, for she is not a prize you can easily win.

Little did he know Satoru loved challenges.

So he thanks the gods that an annual Spartan festival is thoroughly celebrated in the palace today.

The hall is the spitting image of revelry. Men adorn their finest tunics while women have braids of flowers and cloths, wine, fresh fruits, and meat are plentiful on all tables. There’s singing, there’s dancing, and, best of all, there’s you.

Satoru’s been observing you for quite some time now. It wouldn’t be fair to call it something akin to a predator stalking his prey; no, you far from being bested by Satoru. More like a bird waiting for all the weaker mates to filter themselves out.

They were like peacocks, the men that came up to you, with the way they flared their artificial grandeur. Each time a young man sat next to you, you remained aloof, giving them nothing but a bunch of polite glances and nods. But it was clear that what ever your responses or questions were, they were nonplussed. Satoru almost felt bad for the fools if it weren’t for how they were encroaching on his time to finally talk to you.

It was the opening that a particularly witless and brutish man had given him—the guy basically leaves the seat next to you, almost in tears from whatever you had said to him, but you only blinked as Satoru approached.

Satoru slid into the recently vacated seat beside you with the grace of a man who had never been denied anything in his life. He draped an arm over the back of his chair, all effortless ease, as if he had been waiting for this moment all night.

"Whatever you said to him, I’d like to hear it," he mused, his lips quirking in amusement. "Though I do hope you go a little easier on me—I’m rather sensitive, you see."

Your gaze flickered to him, unimpressed, though there was something almost imperceptible in your eyes—mild intrigue, perhaps.

"If you are so easily wounded, Your Majesty, then I fear you are not prepared for a Spartan woman’s words."

His grin widened. "Oh, but I live for danger."

You hummed, noncommittal, before returning your attention to the food before you. Satoru, however, found himself transfixed by the way you reached for a slice of fruit, your fingers delicate yet decisive as you brought it to your lips. You took a slow, deliberate bite, and for the first time in his life, Satoru forgot how to speak.

It was absurd, really. He had seen beautiful women eat before—Helen herself had a practiced elegance to it—but there was something about you. Something about the unthinking ease with which you did it, how your lips parted just slightly before closing around the fruit, how you chewed with quiet, effortless grace, unbothered by the weight of hungry gazes that lingered on you.

For a man who had always been surrounded by beauty, who had spent his life sated and indulged, it was utterly unfair that something so simple could leave him spellbound.

Perhaps the gods were toying with him.

"You’ve been staring for quite some time," you remarked, snapping him out of his reverie.

Satoru exhaled a laugh, recovering with impressive speed. "Can you blame me? I’m simply trying to unravel the mystery of how you managed to make that poor soul flee in tears. I’d rather not suffer the same fate."

"Then I suggest you leave now, Your Majesty."

"Not a chance."

You sighed, though there was the ghost of amusement at the corner of your lips. "Persistent, aren’t you?"

Satoru grinned. "And yet, here you are, still talking to me."

He watched as you reached for another piece of fruit, this time slower, as if testing him, watching to see if he would stare again. He nearly laughed—because, of course, he did.

"You truly are hopeless," you muttered, shaking your head.

"Ah, but at least I am entertaining," he countered. "And I do believe I’ve managed what those other poor fools could not—I’ve kept your attention."

You opened your mouth to retort, but he was faster. "Go on, you can admit it," he teased. "I make for much better company than them, don’t I?"

For a moment, you merely regarded him, expression unreadable. Then, to his absolute delight, a soft laugh escaped your lips.

It was small, barely more than an exhale, but it was real.

And gods, it was beautiful.

Satoru leaned in slightly, drinking in the sight of you as if committing it to memory.

"See?" he murmured, triumphant. "I told you I’m quite good at this."

Your amusement lingered, but you shook your head as if in exasperation. "If you say so."

He did not say so. He knew so.

Because despite all the reasons he had come to Sparta, despite all the men who had gathered to win Helen’s hand, Satoru had found himself drawn to you instead.

And he had no intention of stopping now.

But before he could get another word in, a horn sounds, and you nod to him, somewhat apologetically. “That is my call.”

Before he can ask, you head, skirts fluttering behind you as you move to join a growing group of young ladies in the middle. It’s clear the gathering has captured the interest of most of the men that were previously dining. 

You make your way down to the middle, where you arrive at your position—it’s the one you’ve occupied every year. This dance is a show of grace and lineage, a chance for the noblemen to watch and admire, to see which girl carries herself with the most poise, the most elegance, the most effortless charm.

In Gojo’s eyes, it’s easy to determine who that is.

You take your place among your cousins, hands joining as the musicians begin their melody. It is a lighthearted dance, nothing too intricate, nothing that demands much more than the ability to move in time with the others. Your skirts flutter with each step, the long strands of your braid swaying as you turn.

It’s a girlish, lighthearted dance you’ve done since you were little. You and your younger cousins giggle as you go through the motions, reveling in the attentions of the spectators that witness the lovely display with amusement and pure, wholesome adoration.

That is, until you register a special set of eyes on you.

In a specific turn along to the strum of the lyre, you turn gracefully—a move that orients you towards Gojo’s direction. When you finally see his face and notice his presence, it’s like you’re kicked in the chest in a spar with Helen, with the way your breath leaves you.

His eyes are dark, enraptured on you, and only you. Heat creeps up your neck as you move your hands as you’re oddly flustered. His gaze is admiring and is respectful, but the intensity of it—like longing that is toeing the line between lust and pure yearning—makes your heart quicken in a way that you rue your accursed organ, for it to beat so traitorously. When he notices that you’re staring back at him, his jaw—which was clenched—loosens in a smile, but the smile isn’t innocent. It spells out a promise—one unspoken, one that curls at the edges of his lips like a secret meant for you alone. It is the kind of smile that men wear when they know something you don’t, when they have already decided on something long before you’ve even had the chance to argue.

It is sharp. Focused.

It traces the curve of your waist, the sway of your hips, the way your arms extend with each graceful movement.

It darkens.

Heat spreads up your neck before you can help it. The flickering torches of the hall must be to blame, or perhaps the wine in your belly, but you feel warm, too warm, and it is absurd.

Why should you care where Gojo of Ithaca’s eyes linger?

His smirk grows, and it is cocky. Infuriating, even. You snap your head away before he can see how your face burns, resuming your dance with the others, willing yourself to shake off the foolishness that has settled in your bones.

But even as you turn, even as the skirts of your dress flare and the room around you continues its celebration, you feel it—

His eyes.

Still watching.

“Athena, I swear to you that I need her. She is my future wife!” Gojo insists, stomping his feet as he trails the goddess as if he were a child. It reminded the goddess of wisdom of when she first met him—when he had taken down the magic boar she had let loose, showing him of having intellect worthy of being mentored by her. 

But Athena had meant to be a mentor to a warrior of the mind—not this lovesick, pathetic fool in front of her, like a dog whining for food. Athena sighed exasperatedly as another animal she was hunting runs away from Gojo’s sheer loudness. “Enough!” she snaps, but not unkindly. “Who is this princess you speak of, and what kind of spell has she cast on you to become this much of a fool?”

Gojo ignores any insults directed towards him, and instead adorns a bright smile at the mention of you. “She is the cousin of Helen of Sparta, and the daughter of Icarius—”

Gojo is interrupted by a snort. “The same one that swore to never marry his daughter off?”

This gives Gojo a reason to pause. He had not known this fact. “So, how do you propose I—”

Much to his chagrin, the w goddess is already a few steps ahead. “To waste my time on strategy to secure a woman, Gojo, is quite preposterous.

But if you must insist on my counsel, then you shall earn it," Athena declares, turning on her heel to face him fully. Her gaze, sharp as a well-honed blade, sweeps over him, as if assessing whether he is truly worth the effort. "Icarius is a man of reason before all else. He values intellect, discipline, and above all, loyalty. If you wish to stand a chance, you must prove to me two things: one, that she is a wise woman worth of being sought after, and, two, you must prove that you are not merely another suitor blinded by beauty."

Gojo grins, clearly pushing his luck. "So you will help me?"

Athena exhales, the very picture of divine suffering. "I will not gift you the answer, but I will grant you the means to find it yourself."

"Which is just a long-winded way of saying you will help me." He nods sagely, as if he has unraveled the mysteries of Olympus itself.

Athena rubs her temple. "I should have let the boar trample you."

Gojo only laughs, stepping in line beside her as they weave through the woods. His mind is already turning, piecing together what little he knows of Icarius, of you, and of what he must do to win. Because one thing is certain—he will win.

Icarius may have sworn never to wed you off, but Gojo Satoru has never been one to abide by the rules.

You do not want to be here.

All you simply wanted was time in your sanctuary, your olive tree. It remained hidden in the royal gardens, so it’s a wonder that Gojo of Ithaca had found you. Of course, you would have to be a fool to not admit that these suitors’ wit paled in comparison to that white-haired young king. Such as this one, for example.

“My lady, I could not help but notice your fair disposition when I looked upon you,” the suitor grins, his teeth bared like a dog catching scent of a meal. It is not a pleasant expression. You do not react, save for clutching your weaving tighter to your chest. He steps closer, and you take measured care not to recoil, though the instinct is strong. “May you grant me your name—”

“I would have to apologize,” you cut him, already turning away. “My father does not—”

You’re stopped by a harsh grip on your wrist, and you wrench your gaze back to the suitor in shock. 

"You wound me, my lady," the man says, still smiling as if this was amusing. As if he had power over you. Physical power, you suppose, but clearly this man was lacking in intellect, to not have noticed his presence. "You have been so cold to me, and I—"

He does not notice the shadow behind him.

“Ah,” a voice interjects, smooth, easy. “That’s no way to hold a lady’s hand, is it?”

The grip on your wrist slackens, but another takes its place—light, barely a touch.

Gojo.

The suitor’s face twists in confusion, but it quickly shifts to pain as Gojo applies the smallest pressure to his wrist.

“You—”

“She said no,” Gojo interrupts breezily. “And I’d hate to make a scene, so do us all a favor and leave before I decide to break something, yeah?”

With an effortless flick of his hand, the suitor stumbles back, shaking out his wrist as if burned.

Gojo does not spare him another glance. His attention is on you.

“Are you alright?” His voice is softer now, no teasing lilt, no easy arrogance.

You hesitate, unsettled.

“I was handling it,” you say, though it does not come out as firm as you would like.

Gojo only hums, something that sounds like, I know you could, but you’re distracted by his eyes drifting down to your wrist, where a faint mark has already begun to bloom.

His gaze darkens, but you hurry to assure him. “I’ll bandage this, it’s not a big wound—”

He interrupts you. “No need,” gently holds your shoulder, as if imploring you to follow him into the direction he’s started to walk, “I’ll do it myself.”

“That’s not—”

“Look.” He shoots you a look, but it is not unkind nor patronizing. You realize belatedly that it has set your heart aflutter. “I trust that you know how to bandage your wound. But I have had countless like it, so you are with a skilled master in healing. And who knows which suitors may find you on your journey to the physician?

You purse your lips, biting back a retort but failing. “And aren’t you one of the said suitors?”

His lips pull back in an amused smile, and you notice his hand is still resting lightly on your shoulder. “I think we both know I’m different.” You bite back a smile.

“Oh, really?” you remark dryly, but the look in your eyes is anything but. “And how did Your Majesty acquire the title of being different?”

His thumb brushes, just barely, against the fabric of your sleeve before he withdraws his hand entirely, as if sensing that he’s lingered too long. But his smirk remains, insufferable as ever.

“For one, I don’t make a habit of forcing myself upon unwilling women,” Gojo remarks, a pointed edge to his otherwise careless tone. “And for another…” He tilts his head, considering you. “I daresay I might be infatuated in a way they—or you—couldn’t comprehend.”

Your breath catches, but you recover quickly, huffing as you turn away. “All these sweet nothings. Helen will love you.”

Gojo chuckles, stepping ahead of you as he leads the way. “Yet she is not the one I am after.”

You pause. Soak in his words. Outwardly, you roll your eyes and follow him for you were at a lack of words, but inside Poseidon’s storm rages inside you at his words, creating a ferocious whirlpool of conflicting feelings.

His strides are long and easy, as if he belongs wherever he walks, and yet, he slows his pace just enough for you to keep up. The gesture is not lost on you.

The physician’s chamber is quiet when you arrive, save for the distant chatter of servants outside. Gojo does not call for assistance. He merely gestures for you to sit, pulling out a small cloth and a bowl of water, his movements easy and practiced.

“You’ve done this before,” you murmur as he kneels before you, pressing the damp cloth against your wrist.

His smile is unreadable. “I am a warrior, am I not?”

The cold seeps into your skin, making you shiver. Gojo notices. His touch, for all his bravado, is unbearably gentle. You do not know what to make of it.

“You’ll bruise,” he says softly, fingers skimming over the faint marks. “Does it hurt?”

You swallow. “No.”

A lie.

Gojo’s gaze flickers up to yours, and for the first time, there is no teasing in his expression—only something quiet and knowing, something that makes your heart betray you in its weakness.

For a moment, you both fall into a silence, and, to avoid his gaze, you go back to clutching at your hand and staring at it, as if there’s something really intriguing about it. Then, he speaks up. “Want to play?”

You bring your gaze back to him, caught off guard. “What?”

He cocks his head in a direction to which you face, and there you see it: a game board. One to play petteia. 

You turn back at him, blinking. “You play petteia?”

Gojo grins, stretching out with a lazy ease that only makes you more suspicious. As if he has ulterior motives to this. “What, surprised? Strategy games are a warrior’s pastime.”

You squint him. That line of reasoning was rather true, you suppose. Something told you—something being the way he convinced Helen’s father so easily, how he always seemed three, no, six steps ahead—that he was no normal warrior, no normal brute. Huffing, you remark offhandedly, “I suppose a true warrior does sharpen his mind as well as his sword. It’s a pity that you’ll be losing today. To me.”

His smile deepens, and it makes you notice small indents in his cheeks as a result, and the way there’s a rosy pink hue on his cheeks, as if he’s excited to see what you can do.  “Then by all means, put me to shame.”

You settle onto the floor, determined, as he arranges the pieces between you. The rules are simple enough—capture your opponent’s pieces by flanking them on either side—but the way Gojo moves is anything but. He plays with an insufferable sort of confidence, shifting his pieces with flicks of his fingers, as if the game is already his to win.

Until it isn’t, obviously.

He frowns when the click of stone dropped onto the board sounds. You’ve cut off his advancing soldier, trapping it neatly between two of your own.

“Huh,” he muses, tapping his chin. He stares at the board, mind no doubt going at a speed unfathomable to most. His eyes flick rapidly, as if assessing the position of all the stone and calculating all the possible moves and permutations that can salvage him out of the situation you’ve created for him. You maintain your poker face, but inside, you want to smile. You had calculated those said combinations a few steps ago, and it’d be really hard to get out of this. Then, comes out a “That was… unexpected.”

You smile sweetly. “What’s wrong? Did the great King of Ithaca not anticipate that?”

Gojo exhales, dragging a hand through his hair while huffing out a laught. “You’re quite ruthless, aren’t you?”

“I’m practical,” you correct, claiming another of his pieces. “And good at this game.”

Gojo squints at the board, as if trying to decipher where exactly he went wrong. “You do know you’re supposed to let me win, right? My pride is fragile.”

“I wasn’t aware kings had fragile pride.”

“You wound me, my lady.” He presses a hand to his chest, but his movements are distracted as he moves another piece—only for you to immediately trap it.

His head snaps up. “Wait—”

You make your final move, effortlessly cornering his last few soldiers.

Silence.

Gojo blinks at the board.

You clear your throat. “Do you need a moment to process this?”

Slowly, he leans back, shaking his head with something close to awe. “You know, I was planning to go easy on you, but I don’t think that would have helped.”

You grin, triumphant. “I’ll take that as an admission of defeat.”

Gojo exhales through his nose, then tilts his head at you, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes.

“You’re dangerous,” he says, and you’re not quite sure if it’s a compliment or a warning.

“Maybe to an overconfident king who underestimates his opponent.”

That urges out a laugh from him, and he shakes his head. “Trust me, I was not underestimating you. It seemed that I had overestimated myself.”

Before you can respond, Gojo leans forward, propping his chin on his hand as he watches you with something unsettlingly thoughtful.

You don’t trust that look.

“What?” you ask warily.

He hums. “Just thinking.”

“That’s a dangerous pastime for you.”

Gojo presses a hand over his chest, as if wounded. “Cruel. After I iced your wrist and let you absolutely demolish me at petteia, this is the thanks I get?”

“You act as if I owe you something.”

His smirk returns, slow and smug. “Well, since you mention it…”

You narrow your eyes. “No.”

“You didn’t even hear me out.”

“I know you well enough to predict whatever absurd request you’re about to make.”

Gojo lets out a dramatic sigh, tilting his head back. “And here I was, about to propose something completely reasonable. A fair exchange.”

You arch a brow. “Fair?”

He nods, all feigned seriousness. “See, I let you win.”

“You most certainly did not.”

“And I helped with your wrist.”

Your lips press into a line. “Which you did of your own volition.”

Gojo ignores this. “So, as a completely justified request, I think you should let me meet you in the royal gardens.”

You blink. His words hang in the air between you, a casual proposition that somehow carries more weight than it should.

“The gardens?”

He nods. “By the olive tree at sunset. The one where we met.”

“Why?”

Groaning, he lounges back, pushing his feet out while doing the motion. It makes his long legs come closer to where yours are opposite from him, so much that you can feel their heat. Not direct contact, but there. “Have I not made my advances clear by now?” He moves to a sitting position, a more serious look in his eyes as he earnestly looks at you, but you find it hard—despite your usual dry disposition towards suitors—to maintain eye contact, so you opt to look at your hands instead as his next words strike blows to your treacherous heart.

 “Your Highness, I am here for you. You are far wittier than me—I have things to learn from you. You have bewitched me, for I did not know it was possible for a lady to consume my every waking thoughts in such a violent way as you have. You may think me a stranger, and you may think me one of the many foolish suitors here for Miss Helen’s hand, but I will make you fall in love with me. I will show you that despite my pride, I will be a kind and gentle husband.” He exhales, as if steadying himself, but his eyes remain fixed on you. There is no jest in them, no trace of the arrogance he so often wears like armor. Only something raw.

“And I will absolutely not leave this city until you come back to me in my kingdom as the Queen of Ithaca. It may require god-like skill to convince your father to marry me—but I am nothing if not persistent.”

Before you can even begin to form a response—before you can push past the breath lodged in your throat, the furious pounding in your chest—there’s a voice.

"There you are!"

Helen.

You turn just as she strides toward you, golden as ever, a vision of effortless beauty. She doesn’t seem to have heard a word of what was just spoken, too preoccupied with her own delight at having found you.

"I’ve been looking everywhere," she sighs, linking her arm through yours before glancing at Gojo, who, for once, remains uncharacteristically silent. Her eyes flick between the two of you, and then she hums. "I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything?"

Gojo recovers faster than you do. "Not at all, Your Highness," he says smoothly, a practiced smile slipping into place. "I was simply getting to know your cousin better."

Helen gives him a flirtatious smile, but nevertheless turns to you, frowning. “And why are you at the physician’s?”

You feel Gojo’s eyes follow your movements as you shake your head and rise, walking towards Helen. “An unruly suitor. It was a light bruise, it is not a great matter–”

“A bruise?!”

“Come with me,” you hissed, waving her along so she did not question further. It seemed that the room was very warm, for you felt a heat creep up your neck the longer Gojo’s eyes unequivocally stayed on you. 

Helen blinked, at a loss for words, no doubt pondering why you both were leaving Gojo’s presence so readily. “But His Majesty—”

“Cousin,” you snapped, “did you not have a reason to be looking for me?”

Helen blinks, momentarily distracted. Then, as if something suddenly occurs to her, she brightens.

“Oh! Yes, Father wanted to see you.”

You exhale, relieved—only for it to be short-lived, because she doesn’t move.

She remains rooted in place, glancing back at Gojo with a look that is far too amused for your liking. The flirtatious smile returns, softer now, more intrigued.

“But surely,” she muses, tilting her head, “you wouldn’t mind if I stayed a moment longer? It’s not often one meets a man as charming as His Majesty of Ithaca.”

You narrow your eyes. “Helen.”

“What?” she says, all innocence. “We’re simply talking.”

You glance at Gojo, expecting him to look insufferably pleased, but instead, he’s watching you. Not Helen. You tear your gaze away.

It’s only once the two of you are walking through the halls, out of earshot, that Helen sighs, linking your arms again.

“He’s quite something, isn’t he?” she murmurs.

You keep your eyes ahead. “Perhaps. A bit arrogant, though.”

“He’s clever,” she corrects, then gives you a knowing look. “And you like him.”

You scoff, though the heat on your skin betrays you. “I do not.”

Helen only laughs, shaking her head. “Dearest cousin,” she sighs, “I have seen you endure the most persistent suitors with all the warmth of an ice-cold river. And yet, here you are, playing petteia with him, letting him tend to your wounds.”

You do not have an answer to that.

And Helen does not press further. She only smiles wistfully to herself, as if she already knows how this story will end.

…

The halls are silent at this hour, save for the whisper of your steps against the cool stone. You keep to the shadows, careful, quiet. If anyone were to see you like this—wrapped in a cloak, a weaver in hand, slipping through the corridors like a thief in the night—there would be whispers by morning.

But then again, what whispers have ever concerned you?

The thought does not comfort you as much as it should.

Your grip tightens around the weaver, its familiar weight grounding. You brought it with you on the off chance that Gojo, like most men, proves unreliable. You have no reason to believe he will come; his feelings for you could be temporary lust, a second option in case his primary one—Helen—fails. No reason to have entertained his invitation at all. And yet, you go.

You cannot say why.

A foolish impulse, perhaps. Or simple curiosity. Or maybe—

You push the thought away, focusing instead on the memory that surfaces unbidden.

A conversation with your father, just today while you dined.

You had spoken of Helen’s upcoming wedding of the foreign princes and warriors who sought her hand, of the future that awaited her.

Your father had frowned, the lines of his face deepening. “It is dangerous,” he had said, quiet but firm. “To entrust my daughter to a man who cannot ensure her well-being.”

You had smiled then, easy and unbothered, as if his words did not touch something in you. “It is not you he must convince.”

He had looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his gaze, but ended up remarking offhandedly, as if reminding you. “I do not want you to go far from me.”

And you, still smiling, had said nothing at all.

Now, in the solitude of the night, you are no longer smiling.

You know your father’s concern is not unfounded. It is not simply Helen’s future that weighs on him—it is yours.

But it is a strange thing, the way his words linger, how they press against you, heavy and quiet. Not as a warning. Not as a burden. But as something else. Something you cannot yet name.

You reach the courtyard, the olive tree standing tall against the night sky behind a series of trees. You exhale, slow and steady, before walking to reach it, weaver in hand.

If he comes, he comes.

And if not—

Well. You were never the kind to wait idly for a man.

But before you could go on your endless mental tirade of how despicable the male species were, you heard a voice. Gojo’s voice in particular.

Walking closer and closer—to where your olive tree was but not where you were visible, trees providing coverage—you noticed him talking to someone in a hushed, yet excited tone. You use the window of sight allowed by the gap between the trees’ leaves to see him, standing with an owl on his forearm. It’s turned to him, as if paying attention, although exasperatedly, to him while he stands tall as ever, his foot tapping impatiently against the grass.

You hesitate, watching as the owl blinks at him, as if listening, considering his words.

And then it notices you. Its, well, owlish eyes are wide as they lock in on your figure.

With a quiet rustle of feathers, it takes flight, disappearing into the night.

Gojo turns, following its path before his gaze lands on you.

“You scared my friend away,” he says, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

You blink at him. “You were talking to an owl.”

He shrugs, as if this too is perfectly reasonable. “She’s a good listener. A little judgmental, though.”

You give him a look, unimpressed. “I see you’ve finally found an audience that suits you.”

His lips curve into a slow smile. “And yet, here you are.”

You huff, settling onto one of the smooth stones beneath the tree. “I didn’t come for your company.” You hold up the weaver in your hands, as if that alone is proof of your intentions. “I came to pass the time.”

“Ah,” he drawls, stepping closer, hands slipping into the folds of his cloak. “And yet, you’re talking to me instead.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but he only grins, triumphant.

“Tell me,” he muses, dropping down beside you. “Were you hoping—or predicting, with that fast mind of yours—I wouldn’t come?”

You don’t answer right away, fingers idly threading the weaver. The night air is cool, the scent of olives and earth thick around you.

“Would it have mattered?” you ask at last, voice light, careless.

Gojo watches you, and for a moment, he does not answer either.

Then, quietly, as if confessing something neither of you are ready to name, he says, “Yes.”

You inhale slowly, fingers stilling on the weaver as his answer settles between you.

Yes.

It wasn’t spoken in jest, nor with the easy arrogance he so often wielded. Instead, it was quieter, more certain—like an unshakable truth, unburdened by expectation.

You don’t know what to make of it.

You cast him a glance from the corner of your eye. He’s sitting close but not too close, his long legs stretched out before him, arms resting lazily over his knees. His usual grin is absent, replaced by something unreadable, something you cannot name.

The weight of his gaze is different now. Not teasing, not searching for amusement—but waiting.

You look away first.

Your fingers resume their slow, practiced work, weaving delicate patterns into the fabric, though your thoughts are anything but orderly.

“Why are you here?” you ask, voice softer than you intend.

A beat passes before he answers.

“Because you are.”

You swallow.

He leans back onto his hands, tilting his head toward the night sky, moonlight catching in the pale strands of his hair. It makes him look otherworldly, like a figure carved from myth—too beautiful, too untouchable.

“I’m not Helen,” you say after a moment, unsure why the words leave your lips. “You have nothing to gain from this.”

Gojo exhales, a quiet sound, but when he looks at you again, there is something almost amused in his expression—touched with something softer, something more patient.

“Do you think I speak to owls for political gain?”

You huff, trying to ignore the warmth threatening to creep up your neck. “I think you do most things for your own amusement.”

He hums, as if considering that. “You wound me.”

“I doubt that,” you mutter, eyes fixed on your work.

And yet—his fingers twitch where they rest against the stone. It’s small, barely noticeable, but your eyes catch it, and you wonder.

Does he want to reach for you?

The thought unsettles you more than it should.

He exhales again, then shifts, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees, expression thoughtful. “You know,” he muses, “I had a whole speech planned.”

You raise a brow. “Oh?”

“Something about how I was drawn to you the way sailors are drawn to sirens. That you, unlike any other, have made me question things I thought I knew.” He looks down at his knees, lips pulling in a mischievous smile. “But with you, I doubt a night of spilling sweet nothings or perhaps…other things would have swayed you.”

Your fingers still.

“But I think I’ve changed my mind,” he continues, tilting his head. “I think I’d rather just talk to you.”

You stare at him, caught somewhere between wariness and something dangerously close to wonder.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you ask, “What would you have said next?”

His lips twitch, and for the first time tonight, there is mischief in his gaze again. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You roll your eyes, but the moment has shifted, lighter now, though something unnamed still lingers beneath it.

“Keep your secrets, then,” you mutter, returning to your weaving.

“You wound me,” Gojo says again, pressing a hand to his chest as if truly affronted. “Here I am, spilling my heart, and you deny me even a scrap of sentiment.”

You let out a quiet scoff, keeping your focus on your weaving. “Perhaps if your words weren’t so dramatic, I’d be inclined to believe them.”

Gojo gasps. “Dramatic?” He leans closer, an almost boyish grin tugging at his lips. “My lady, I am nothing if not a man of sincerity.”

“Oh? So that speech about sirens wasn’t an embellishment?”

“Not at all.” He sighs, as if suffering under some great burden. “I wake in the morning thinking of you, I lay my head at night wondering if you’ve thought of me at all. It’s agony, truly.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips betray you, twitching into something dangerously close to a smile. “That sounds more like a malady than love.”

“Ah, but love is a sickness, is it not?” He exhales dramatically. “And you, my lady, have made a very ill man of me.”

Despite yourself, a laugh escapes—light, unguarded, like something slipping past your defenses before you can catch it.

And then—silence.

You glance at him, and find him already watching you.

His usual mischief is gone, replaced by something softer, something wholly unprepared. His breath is caught somewhere between his ribs, his lips slightly parted as if the sight of your laughter has stolen the air from him.

And then—

A blush, unmistakable even in the moonlight.

Your heart stutters.

Oh.

For the first time, you allow yourself to study him properly. The sharp angles of his jaw, the elegant bridge of his nose, the vivid eyes that hold yours so intently.

He is very handsome.

The thought settles somewhere unexpected, like an admission you’ve been avoiding.

Before you can dwell on it, something light catches against your shoulder—a drifting leaf, caught in the folds of your garment.

Gojo moves before you can react.

His fingers brush against the fabric near your collarbone, and then linger, featherlight and warm, as he pulls the leaf free. The moment stretches—longer than it should, charged with something unspeakable.

You feel his breath before you see him move, close enough now that the space between you is barely a whisper.

His hand, now free of its task, hesitates—before it trails downward, catching yours in his grasp.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to fill the moment with jest. His thumb traces the back of your hand, slow and absentminded, as if memorizing the shape of you.

Your own breath falters.

His breath is warm in the cool night air, his proximity setting something taut beneath your ribs. You are no stranger to flirtation, nor to men who think they can win you with pretty words, but Gojo—Gojo is different.

Perhaps it’s the way he looks at you now, his usual mischief tempered by something quieter. Or perhaps it’s the fact that, despite his arrogance, despite his clever tongue and tireless persistence, he does not presume to take.

He waits.

A dangerous thing, because it gives you time to notice the way his fingers twitch slightly against the fabric of your sleeve, the way his lips part as if tasting the words before speaking them.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, tilting his head.

You arch a brow, feigning indifference despite the heat pooling low in your stomach. “Am I?”

His lips curve. “Should I be flattered?”

You hum, as if considering it. “I’m only making observations.”

“Oh?” He steps just a fraction closer, his voice dipping. “And what have you observed, my lady?”

“That you blush quite easily,” you say smoothly, pleased when the faint flush creeps further up his neck. “That despite your grand declarations, you are, in fact, a little shy.”

Gojo lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Shy? My lady, you wound me.”

“Do I?” You tilt your chin up slightly, your voice softer now, your hand still in his.

His gaze flickers to your lips.

Your breath catches, just for a moment.

And then—

His hand moves, fingers brushing along the curve of your jaw before settling at the nape of your neck, his touch deliberate, careful. A question, waiting for an answer.

You don’t grant him words—only the tilt of your head, the briefest lean forward.

It is all the invitation he needs.

He kisses you like a secret, like something to be savored—slow at first, testing, before he grows bolder. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you just a little closer, and warmth floods through you, seeping into your bones.

The world is silent save for the soft hitch of breath, the faint rustle of fabric as he deepens the kiss, as you allow yourself to press into him, fingers curling into the front of his tunic.

For a man who never stops talking, he is utterly wordless now. 

When you wake up next in the morning, it is grumpy and tired. Not only were you up late into the night, talking to and…kissing Gojo of Ithaca, or rather, Satoru (while you were drunk on each other, he had convinced you to call him Satoru), but the sound of Helen’s squealing made your head ring, putting an unbearable pressure onto them.

“Helen!” you scold her, throwing a spare pillow at her. She easily dodges while you sit up in the bed, half-heartedly rubbing your eyes to wipe the sleep from them. As she throws herself onto the foot of the bed, you notice and hear the pitter patter of rain, casting a somber gray light in your bedroom that is occasionally interrupted by Zeus’s thunder, as if the god was angered or sharing a premonition. 

Shaking off the thought, you scowl at your cousin, who’s excitedly prattling about things you still have yet to comprehend. “Slow down! Tell me, without spewing all your words at once.”

“Father gave me permission to marry!” she squealed, jumping on you and hugging you closely. She seemed happy, and you loved your cousin very much, even if you did not show it much. Pure affection permeates your countenance, as she continues. “You know I’ve always wanted to marry him, with his big arms and all. He could totally manhandle me, but you knoooww I love the ones that can whimper—”

“Oh my god,” you groan, covering your ears as if scandalized (you’ve said much worse to her), but you grin regardless. “Who is the man that you have chosen?”

“Well,” she laughs, flipping her hair off her shoulder, “Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.”

Your heart drops to your stomach.

What she says next seems to blur together, not registering because you are shocked, your world almost tilted.

Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.

It is then you realize belatedly that Helen seems to be calling out to you, and what you notice the most out of anything on her face is the soft smile she has on her face. One that shows that she is fond of Satoru Gojo, that she has affection for him. And who are you—the girl whose father doesn’t wish for her to marry, one that isn’t to be promised—take that away from Helen, from him?

Gojo has made it clear that he is not here for Helen—but wouldn’t it be better for him and his kingdom (which you discovered last night that he cares so dearly for) for him to marry Helen? A beautiful queen and a wise king. 

What a match.

You swallow, throat suddenly dry, but you manage a smile—strained, weak, but a smile nonetheless.

“Helen,” you begin, voice steady despite the storm brewing inside you, “are you certain?”

“Of course!” she beams, oblivious to the way your fingers tighten in the fabric of your bedding. “Father said Gojo has yet to ask officially, but he will, I know it. And why wouldn’t he? A match like this—it’s fate.”

Fate.

What cruel irony.

You remember last night—Gojo’s hands warm against your skin, his laughter pressed against your lips, the way he had murmured your name like a vow.

And yet—

You look at Helen, golden and radiant even in the gray morning light, her eyes alight with genuine happiness. You love her, truly, and have since childhood. She has always had her pick of men, but there was something softer in the way she spoke of Satoru just now.

The soft smile, the dreamy lilt to her voice.

She wants this.

And what of you?

Your chest aches, but you laugh, the sound lighter than it should be. “You sound quite taken with him.”

“I am,” she beams, watching you. “He’s gorgeous! Charming, too. He told me last night that he thinks my eyes are like the sea at sunrise.”

Your stomach twists and it seems that the panic overwhelms you because all you can manage to do is swallow and nod. “Well,” you look at her with a tight smile, “I congratulate you. Let us discuss this matter further over breakfast.” She smiles and squeezes your upper arm in a goodbye, and the touch of it burns.

You don’t ever make it to breakfast that day.

It continues raining that day, and it’s quite appropriate for how you’re feeling. The feeling of melancholy permeates the air around you as you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Usually, you occupy your time by reading or, more likely, weaving, but you couldn’t muster the energy to find interest in that either.

Over a man. What a shame.

You were not one to lie idle—you were constantly praised as a princess wise beyond her years, and it would be wise, in this situation, to move on. Because the man you had grown feelings for is now engaged to your cousin, or, at least, your cousin intends to be engaged with him. And it would be wiser to let it happen, for Helen’s happiness was your happiness.

Sighing, you stuff your face into your pillow and groan, muffled by the linen fabric of your seats. You then decide grudgingly that if you’re not going to leave your room at all, it may be best to shed yourself of your clothing and lay comfortably in your loincloth and mamillare.

But right as you put your hand on your clothing to strip yourself, you hear a noise. 

The sound comes again—a sharp, rhythmic tap-tap-tap, just barely audible over the rain. You freeze, fingers still curled around the fabric of your chiton, half-peeled from your shoulder. At first, you think it might be a stray branch scraping against the stone, wind-tossed by the storm. But then it happens again—more deliberate this time, insistent.

Then, looking at the new objects strewn across your balcony, you realize it’s not branches—it’s pebbles.

You scowl, tying your garments hastily before moving toward the balcony. The rain is gentler now, more mist than storm, clinging to the stone and silvering the world beyond. You grip the railing and peer down—

And there he is.

Satoru.

Drenched from head to toe, hair plastered to his forehead, a frown curving his lips as he concentrates on where he’s going to throw his pebble next. His stance seems urgent, but you’re so caught up on the fact that he’s here, as if he isn’t supposed to be engaged to Helen or be subjected to whatever congratulatory round of alcohol men bestowed upon each other after securing the most beautiful woman alive.

Your heart stutters.

You pull back immediately, breath catching in your throat. You shouldn’t have come to the balcony. You shouldn’t be looking at him, shouldn’t be thinking about this morning when Helen’s voice still lingers in your ears—Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.

The pebble strikes the stone beside you.

“I know you’re up there,” Gojo calls, tone indecipherable. “Are you really going to ignore me? After all we’ve been through?”

You swallow and your voice trembles when you say, “Go away.”

His resulting laughter sounds betrayed, hurt. “You don’t mean that.”

“Satoru,” and you don’t know if it’s a plea or a warning. His head tilts, an anguished look on his face as he closes his eyes and sighs.

“You wound me,” he huffs out a pained laugh, “After all, I run the risk of sickness just to see you and tell you that you believe wrong.”

Something is created in you, then. Something dangerous like hope. “What?”

But instead of answering, Gojo crouches, then, in one smooth motion, leaps up, catching the edge of the balcony with ease. You barely have time to react before he’s pulling himself over the railing, stepping onto solid ground with practiced grace.

You stumble back, eyes wide. “I told you not to come up.”

“And when have I ever listened?”

There’s something in the way he looks at you then—an intensity you aren’t prepared for. The air between you is charged, thick with something unspoken, something far too dangerous to name.

He takes a step forward. “I thought you were smarter than this.”

You blink, startled. “Excuse me?”

Gojo exhales, running a hand through his damp hair. “Why would you ever think it would be Helen?”

Your stomach lurches. “She said—”

“She assumed,” he corrects, cutting you off. “But I did not accept her. And you let her do that.” His voice drops lower, softer, a stark contrast to the teasing lilt he so often wields. “Do you truly think so little of me?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because if you do, it will come spilling out—the hope you tried to bury, the ache that settled in your chest the moment Helen uttered those words.

He moves closer, and you don’t stop him.

“Princess,” you can see his ivory lashes with how close he is, his face covered in raindrops, “for how wise you are, you seem to not have caught on. What animal is the emblem of Athena?”

Blinking, you’re taken aback by the sudden quizzing. “Owl, what about it—”

Oh.

He sees the realization dawn over your face, and now his tense expression melts into a bittersweet smile. “The goddess of wisdom has been my companion ever since I was a child, helping me attain whatever I needed the most. Whether it be to gain the knowledge one must have to be worthy of being king, or,” he inhales sharply, vibrant eyes scanning over your face vulnerably, “to gain the power to be able to make the wisest, wittiest, funniest, and most beautiful girl I’ve ever known my queen.

“After all, I have my wit—add a little of godlike power, and even I could defeat your father. Respectfully,” he adds quickly. He looks anxious you realize, as if he is about to make a risky move, a big ask. Something he’s been anxious to ask, but scared to. His eyes are still scanning you and his hands twitch at his side as he says, “I hesitate to make this decision, to ask you still after knowing the true nature of my desire for you—”

“Ask me what?”

His eyes are fixed on you, and you think that both of your hearts are beating very, very fast at the moment. “What do you think, princess?”

The silence that falls is loaded, heavy, and laden with hesitation. It’s as if a vice has caged its way through your heart, squeezing and squeezing until all the things you’ve left unsaid threaten to spill out. Things like I don’t want you to marry my cousin. Or yet, even worse, I want you to marry me. “I would not want to throw out my guesses, Satoru,” you instead opt to say, voice soft. “Things like this must be said directly, to not leave any confusion or misunderstandings.”

His jaw tightens, his breath coming harder as he stares at you, something raw and dangerous flickering in his eyes. “I agree. These things should never be left unsaid.” His voice is low, almost seething, but not with anger—no, this is something else entirely, something desperate. “I love you.” The words are unshakable, like a vow. “And I refuse to sit here and pretend my thoughts of you are anything less than ruinous. I dream of you in ways no other man is allowed to, ways that would send me to Hades with a smile on my lips. You have bewitched my soul, stolen the breath from my body, and most dangerously—you have claimed my mind.” His voice drops, softer now, but no less intense. “I do not know how to make you believe me, only that I would sooner challenge the gods themselves than let you slip through my fingers. The world could promise me tens of Helen, but there is only one woman I would ever choose.” His hand finds yours, fingers tightening, as his next words fall like an oath.

“You.”

Your breath stutters, throat tightening as his fingers tighten over yours. His touch is searing, as if the gods themselves have set him aflame, and yet you cannot pull away—you do not want to pull away.

“Satoru—” His name slips from your lips like a prayer, and he swears under his breath, his free hand coming up to cradle your jaw, thumb pressing just below your lips, as if he is fighting the urge to kiss you.

“I would tear down Olympus itself if it meant keeping you,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your cheek. “I would make war with the gods, call upon Athena to guide my spear, and spill the blood of any man foolish enough to think they could take you from me.” His voice is rough, almost a growl, and you swear your knees would give way if not for the way he holds you now, as though letting go would be his ruin.

It is reckless, to let yourself lean into him, to let your fingers curl into the fabric of his damp chiton as though you could anchor yourself to him. But he is an anchor—pulling you into something deep, something dangerous, something you know you will not escape from unscathed.

His nose brushes yours, his lips so close that you feel his every breath, his every hesitation. But you see the war in his eyes, the battle between restraint and desire, and for once, you decide to let yourself be selfish.

So you whisper, “Then prove it.”

And that is all it  takes for him to break.

His lips crash against yours, urgent and claiming, as if to kiss you any softer would be to deny himself the air he breathes. He groans as your hands tangle in his hair, your body pressing flush against his, his own hands no longer gentle but gripping, desperate, possessive. His teeth graze your bottom lip before he deepens the kiss, one hand trailing lower, pressing against the curve of your waist, then lower still—

Thunder crackles, as you gasp out his name. He pulls you both apart, looking anguished as if he’s fighting the urge to keep touching you, to make you moan out his name. Realizing this, you grab his hands and put them on yourself. “My love,” you say, tenderly, and you see how his pupils dilate in response, “you may touch me—”

“Are you sure? For if you say that, I may not be able to stop myself from indulging. Because I will take and take, until you can give me no more.” The way he says it, uncharacteristically serious and brows furrowed, makes you heat up even more, dizzy with lust and your pent up longing for the man.

But your response stays the same, paired with a firm nod. “I am sur—mmmph.”

He smothers you with his lips before you can finish, cupping your jaw until his hands start to move downwards. They move, tracing the planes of your body, and they are relentless in their exploration—they grab you possessively, pushing you closer and closer to him until his hands are below your thighs. Satoru maneuvers you until your legs are straddling his waist so that he can pick you up and carry you to your bed.

After he throws you down like carrying you poses to him as much of a challenge as carrying a light potato sack, he admires you—-thighs clenched, hair splayed around your head like a halo. The skirt of your clothes has inched its way up, exposing your thighs. “Gods, you don’t know what you do to me.”

But instead of playing the innocent maiden, you look at him through your lashes, laughing. “Satoru, time is of the essence. Flattery will get you nowhere—you must show it through your actions.”

You didn’t know what saying his name—and prompting him like that—does to him. He meets your lips in a furious kiss once again, this time hand sneaking up your skirt. He meets the fabric of your loincloth, hooking at its sides and pulling them downwards and downwards, until it is hooked off your ankle (not before Satoru leaves it a trailing kiss there, of course. It is only until Satoru’s eyes hone in what’s in the middle of legs that you realize that you are bare to him. “Satoru, I—”

“I must do something,” he instead responds, and you look at him in confusion. He’s moving down your body as you ask him what he means and if something’s wrong.

You’re interrupted by your gasp as his mouth descends on you, leaving hot, openmouthed kisses directly on your core. His tongue delves inside your lower lips, pleasing the nerves and leaving them singing. He undoes you, leaving your legs feeling like jelly, and the fervor he does it with is nauseating—as if your nectar is ambrosia itself. 

Soon enough, with his reverent worship—and a finger or two added to stretch you out and make you emit embarrassing noises that only encourage him further—you come with a cry of his name. As you roll your hips, riding out your climax, his mouth and head follow and trail your hips, unrelenting in pleasuring you even though you’re overstimulated and left quivering. 

“I—” you blurted, trying to fill the silence after he had just made you taste colors. “I hate you.”

Satoru faux pouts, biting back a grin. “Rude thing to say when I just made you—”

“Don’t finish that!” you shriek, swatting his head lightly as he laughs, kissing his way back up your body. In a tone more shy than you’d like, you say in a small voice, “But I hope we’re not done yet?”

Satoru’s made his way up to your clothed breasts, kissing them tenderly. However, when he hears the question, he stills, looks at you with wide eyes, and he groans, as if surprised by your forwardness. “Princess, the things you do to me.”

He kneads your ass while he stands up, orienting himself into a position to do—that. A voice in the back of your head reminds you that you’re not supposed to be doing this before you get married, but your lust is too strong. And, after all, you trust that there’s no way Satoru wouldn’t marry you.

You feel a slight pressure in your nether regions, and you realize that it is Satoru’s cock. His eyes are on you, blown out with lust, as he continues to stroke the length of it while observing your every reaction. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes.”

With your confirmation, his eyes next left your face as he pushed in, moving slowly and gently. He gauged your features for any signs of discomfort or pain as he moved in shallow thrusts, gradually increasing their length. You gasped, his murmurs and sweet nothings coaxing out your whimpers and whines as he bumped a spot inside of you. As he did, fireworks erupted in the back of your mind, leaving you boneless as he got you closer and closer to your climax once again.

For someone who didn’t experience carnal desires often, you wonder how you’ve gone without this kind of pleasure for so long. Satoru made you feel worshipped, tracing kisses with a love that was almost pious. It doesn’t take you long after that to come once more, thrashing in his grip.

Your climax sheathed on his cock unlocks something in him, for he begins to thrust harder and faster, becoming sloppier and sloppier. His voice is by your ear, whining your name continuously. When he finally feels himself climb over and finally orgasm, he breathes out an “Ah,” and thrusts himself to completely bottom out while his come fills you up, pooling inside of you.

You both stay interlocked for gods know how long. Until Satoru pipes up, voice still unstable and panting, “By the way, it went unsaid, but I’m going to marry you. And you can’t say no.”

Your resulting giggle makes him break out in a big smile before he hugs you, wrestling you both to lie side by side in bed.

It goes without saying, but it all goes smoothly according to plan.

When Satoru had played with petteia with you, he had aimed to show Athena your wit. It is no small claim to defeat him, a king associated with Athena, in the game. The following events further made Athena approve of you and give her blessing. 

So Gojo was already ten steps ahead when he asked your father for your blessing. Your father was furious, of course—he did not want to let you go. After much cajoling and agreement to beat your father, a champion runner, in a race to attain your hand, Satoru wiped his brow. The way your father loved you would be scary to him if he didn’t love you as intensely as he did now. 

And of course Satoru won. Athena got her fellow Olympian, Hermes, to rent out his infamous speed. When he wins, Sparta is in an uproar, including your cousin.

“So, how is he?” Helen asks mischievously. You later found out that day that Helen’s words of marrying Gojo had a purpose—to push you both towards each other, once and for all. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” you turn away, with a hmph. Crossing your arms, you pretend to roll your eyes at the knowing look she had.

“I don’t know, cousin,” she giggles, “I heard a couple of voices in your room when I tried to visit you a few nights back. Tell me, does he whimper—-”

“Helen!” 

The day you marry, donning beautiful and regal clothes, Gojo sneaks you away multiple times to kiss you under your veil when no one is looking.

His wedding gift is built by him—on the voyage back to Ithaca, he not only takes you away from Sparta, but the olive tree that you both had met at. He builds the shared marital bed out of the olive tree for his queen with his blood and sweat. It is a symbol of your love, everlasting, and you would daresay that it is the most precious gift anyone has ever given you.

What you give him in return is one fat and giggly baby. Your father grumbles that the child looks too much like his father, but the way he holds the babe—so carefully, so gently—betrays his affection. Helen coos at her little nephew, amused at how utterly soft Satoru has become, how the once-cocky king now spends his days doting on both you and your child, as if he has won the world itself.

And perhaps he has.

After all, Satoru has always been a man of ambition. A man who would scheme, fight, and even defy the gods for what he desires. And yet, as he holds your child in one arm and you in the other, murmuring teasing words against your ear before stealing another kiss, you realize something—

He had never needed Athena’s wisdom, Hermes’ speed, or any other divine favor to win you.

Because you had already been his, just as he had always been yours.

general masterlist

a/n thank u to my very supportive bestie @purplegemadventures i love all ur ideas ml <3 anyways like always all my beta readers are the goats thank you for reading my incomprehensible ideas. it's 5am and there's a mosquito that's hovering near me and im not totally happy w how this turned out but it was fun writing it kjenkjne. i may write more greek mythology aus but i need to lock in on my series....

ppl who asked to be tagged: @heh123321 @melotter

thank you for reading! reblog and comment to let me know ur thots <3

[hearts4mica]

Tell me what to do. To make it all feel better.

What if. The Batboys find out you’ve been messing up your recipes on purpose?

Part 1 here

———————————————————————————

It was another day of baking. This time you wanted to bake something for Alfred since he was the one who taught you how to bake in the first place.

You decided to bake a vanilla cake! Alfred’s favorite of course.

So you obviously went shopping and had to sneak out since Bruce didn’t want you going out by yourself since ‘Gotham is too dangerous’ maybe it is but you’re just going to the supermarket

You bought your ingredients and decided to start baking without your brothers finding out of course you can’t let them know that you can actually bake.

After a while you finished the cake. Its pretty surprising that no one came into the kitchen! Well its pretty early on the weekend so they’re probably still sleeping.

Alfred came into the kitchen and you gave him the cake. He thanked you and grabed a piece.

But

Just at that time Damian walked into the kitchen. Just perfect.

You both just stared at eachother. While you still had your dirty apron on.

“Good morning [name] i see you baked a cake for Alfred… it smells good?” Damian said

“What does that mean Damian! Does that mean you dont like my cooking?!” You said in a dramatic way trying to get him to leave the kitchen but it obviously backfired. “I didn’t bake thi-”

And at that moment Alfred decided to betray you!

“Young Miss [name] baked me a cake Master Damian would you like to try it“ Alfred said with a smug smile he wanted for you to stop poisoning your sibling with burnt cookies.

“[name] baked it? Didn’t you said you didn’t bake it dearest sister?” Damian walks up to the cake grabs a fork and takes a small bite.

“shit…”

“Are you sure [name] baked it?” (That little shit of course you did but he can’t know that!)

“N-” “Yes” Alfred cuts you off once again.

“Oh everyone would love to hear this” he says as he leaves the room.

———————————————————————————

At dinner everyone is sitting silently esting until Damian decides to break the silence.

“Did you know that our dearest sister here [name] actually knows how to bake? In fact she baked a cake for Alfred today and it tasted great” damian said with an evilish grin.

“SHE WHAT?!”

That little snitch.

“Baby bird why would you do that?!” Dick says

Its not going to be a short dinner.

———————————————————————————

At the end of the day Bruce lectured you about it and grounded you now you have to bake something for your “brothers” atleast twice a week! And it can’t be burnt anymore what’s the fun in that?

———————————————————————————

How would they react?

Dick would be pretty upset about this i mean who wouldnt his ‘baby’ sister made her cookies bad on purpose! Were you mad at them for something? You and him are going to have a long boring fun talk

Jason would be pretty surprised that you actually were smart enough to think about this since he still sees you the way you were before his dead

Tim i feel like he already knew that since he spends so much time spying you- he actually didn’t mind the taste it kept his brain busy?

Damian was really upset his older sister gave him burnt cookies! I mean i get it with Drake, but with him your favorite brother?!

[slayerdurge]

i gotta say i do love durge & minthara just standing in the corner cheering on astarion as he ascends. best enablers in baldur's gate. 💖

[solxamber]

Platonic heartslabyul with fem!Yuu who managed to memorize ALL the rules because she hyperfixated on it. It's a new universe so why not study their customs?

it ended up gender neutral, hope that's okay!

Memorizing the Queen's Rules with Heartslabyul

Ace Trappola

At first, Ace thought your ability to quote the rules on demand was a joke. Then, it became the bane of his existence.

"Hey, it’s not a big deal if I sneak just one tart out of here!" he’d say, already halfway to the door.

"Rule #142: No pastries shall leave the premises of the tea party unless explicitly authorized," you’d insist, crossing your arms and blocking his path like an unyielding wall of justice.

Ace groaned dramatically, throwing his head back. "Why do you even know that? Who memorizes all the rules?!"

"Someone who doesn’t want to end up collared for your nonsense."

He tried to get clever, testing your limits by bending obscure rules. Once, he brought a banana to a tea party.

"You realize Rule #53 bans bananas at tea parties, right?"

Ace stared, mouth agape. "That’s not real. You’re making that up."

"It’s real. Page 47 of the rulebook," you replied with a satisfied grin.

At that moment, Ace realized he could never outsmart you. Begrudgingly, he admitted, "You’re terrifying. I’m never crossing you."

Of course, that didn’t stop him from trying to prank you. But the look on his face every time you countered him with the correct rule was priceless.

Deuce Spade

Deuce was equal parts impressed and intimidated by your encyclopedic knowledge of Heartslabyul law.

"Wait, so… Rule #317 says I can’t use my left hand to pour tea unless it’s Tuesday?" he asked, staring at the teapot like it had betrayed him.

"Correct. It’s Wednesday, so put it down," you replied, barely glancing up from your notes.

Deuce’s determination to follow the rules skyrocketed thanks to you. He started coming to you for advice on everything.

"Is it okay if I use a spoon to eat this tart instead of a fork? I don’t want to mess up!"

You paused. "Technically, Rule #223 says forks are preferred, but spoons are acceptable if no forks are available."

Deuce sighed in relief. "Thanks, prefect. You’re like my personal tutor for dorm survival."

He became your staunchest supporter, often citing your knowledge to back up his own actions. When Ace tried to sneak an extra tart, Deuce would immediately shout, "Rule #142! You can’t do that!"

"Juice, no one likes a snitch," Ace grumbled.

"I like them," you said, giving Deuce a thumbs-up.

Deuce beamed.

Trey Clover

Trey found your obsession with the rules both amusing and endearing.

"You’re the first person I’ve met who rivals Riddle’s knowledge of the rulebook," he said one day as you adjusted the spacing between roses in the garden.

"Someone has to uphold the standards," you replied, squinting at a rosebush. "This one’s two centimeters too close to the other."

Trey chuckled, leaning against his spade. "You know, not even Riddle notices stuff like that."

"Then it’s a good thing I’m here," you said matter-of-factly, pulling out your measuring tape.

Trey quickly realized you were also a fantastic mediator. Whenever Riddle’s temper flared, you calmly cited rules to de-escalate the situation.

"Rule #405: forgiveness is encouraged for first offenses," you’d say, placing a hand on Riddle’s shoulder.

"Fine," Riddle would huff, storming off.

Trey gave you a knowing smile. "You’re a lifesaver."

Cater Diamond

Cater thought you were hilarious. Your ability to recite rules on command made you a walking meme in his eyes.

"So, you’re like, a human rulebook?" he asked one day, phone in hand.

"Pretty much."

"Say something rule-y for my Magicam!" he said, already recording.

You rolled your eyes but played along. "Rule #98: no singing at tea parties unless the Queen of Hearts requests it."

Cater doubled over laughing.

He constantly teased you about your rule knowledge but secretly found it impressive. Anytime he needed an excuse to get out of trouble, he’d turn to you.

"Uh, is there a rule that says I can skip cleaning duty if my phone dies?"

"No, but nice try," you replied.

Still, he loved having you around, especially when you used your rule expertise to put Ace in his place.

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle was in awe of you.

"You’ve memorized all 810 rules?" he asked, eyes wide.

"Of course," you said, shrugging. "Why wouldn’t I?"

Riddle’s respect for you skyrocketed. You became his unofficial right-hand person, often helping him enforce the rules.

"Rule #327 clearly states that tea must be brewed at exactly 96 degrees Celsius," you said during one tea party.

"Exactly!" Riddle exclaimed. "Finally, someone understands!"

You were the only one who could occasionally talk him down when he went overboard.

"Rule #512 says punishments should fit the crime," you reminded him gently.

Riddle adjusted his gloves, looking sheepish. "You’re absolutely correct. As always."

He even started consulting you for rule interpretations, trusting your judgment implicitly.

"Do you think Rule #600 applies here?"

"Only if you interpret it broadly," you replied.

"Brilliant," Riddle said, nodding.

To him, you were a paragon of order and discipline—a perfect addition to Heartslabyul.

Masterlist

[foldingfittedsheets]

When I was getting my associates degree I took a course on human sexuality. It was really fascinating and wonderful. One of our assignments was to write about the first time we ever masturbated which was very uncomfortable and silly at the same time.

Mine was extremely boring because there’s nothing exciting about a five year old realizing that climbing the fire pole feels really good.

I told a coworker at the time about the assignment and she laughed and told me about her daughter. They had these really old dining room chairs with carved legs. The chairs had smooth wood bulbs going up them that the kid loved to rub on.

Her mom didn’t want to dissuade her or make her ashamed but she also needed to establish that masturbation should always be private. So she talked to her daughter and explained that she could do that but must do it in her room alone.

The result of which was that everyone was aware the girl was going to masturbate when she dragged the chair into her room to be alone with it.

My friends was my favorite though, because his discovery was in stages. He liked it when his penis would get hard as a kid because it meant he could grab it and pretend to be flying a helicopter. His aha moment was when this happened once in the shower and the grabbing plus soap made him realize something else might be going on.

That was funny on its own, but nothing could match when in the most betrayed tone he said, “It was so much more fun then, before stuff came out at the end.”

[writing-for-marvel]

Right Here, Waiting

Roommate!Bucky Barnes x Curvy!Fem!Reader

Summary: You’re pining after your insanely attractive roommate, but are convinced he doesn’t feel the same way.

Prompts: Roommate AU for @avengers-assemble-bingo’s 108th Birthday Celebration & you can’t lose something you never had for @elixirfromthestars’s cinema writing challenge 🎥

Warnings: strictly 18+, talk of sex, TRIGGER WARNING internal monologue references reader having issues with weight & eating, sucking in her stomach, VERY insecure reader, angst in the form of belief of unrequited love, jealousy, idiots in love

Word count: 3.6k

A/N: as the winner of this very close poll, here is a little roommate AU with our beloved Bucky 🩵 banners by @vase-of-lilies

Masterlist | Ask me anything! | Taglist | Library

“You’re telling me you share an apartment with a man who looks like that and you haven’t fucked him?” Natasha stares after your roommate as he heads to the bar to grab the drink he promised to purchase you for losing a bet the weekend before.

“Men and women can just be friends you know.”

“If my roommate looked like yours, I’d be jumping his bones every chance I got.”

He’s way out of my league, and as much as I might want him, he doesn’t think of me like that, is the rather depressing thought that has been replayed on loop in your mind since the devilishly attractive yet sweet as an angel Bucky Barnes moved in with you.

But instead of voicing aloud your insecurity, you simply hum in agreement. It’s easier than trying to explain your one sided crush that’s only ever going to end in heartache.

“Well if you’re not interested, do you mind if I go for it? Pretty sure he’d be the best sex of my life.” Your heart drops through your stomach like an anvil. The thought of Bucky being intimate with anyone, let alone your best friend, is enough to send you into a spiral.

Nat’s much more the type he’d go for anyway, beautiful, skinny, quick witted. Everything you’re not. She’s always the one who gets attention from guys at places like this, whereas you’re the ‘approachable one’ who gets asked if Nat’s single.

No one’s ever interested in you, especially not when you’re sitting next to your much hotter, thinner best friend.

“C’mon, there’s lots of guys here you could take home. You really have to make things awkward by sleeping with my roommate?” You try to sound as calm and collected as possible, but the lump in your throat betrays you.

Nat gives you a knowing look, seeing straight through your weak facade. She is your best friend after all, and knows you better than practically anyone in the world. “Of course I wouldn't, darling - I’m just trying to get you to admit you like him.”

There’s something almost worse about Nat knowing you’re crushing on Bucky - she can be so incessant, honing in on something and making it her mission to see it come to fruition, even if it’s to a bitter end. Which is exactly how your one sided crush will play out if she tries pushing you together.

You have an understanding which she hasn’t grasped yet that Bucky would never be attracted to you like that, and you’d rather spare your poor heart from his rejection and find a way to be content with friendship than risk hearing you’re too big, too unattractive, too much not his type for anything to happen.

“Can we just drop it. We’re roommates, nothing more.” But you know Nat’s incapable of letting something go once she’s got her claws sunk into it. You mostly love her for it, but in this one instance, it’s a right pain in the ass.

“You know if you give it a chance, you might find he likes you too. He’s got a smitten little smile for you.”

This is what you’re afraid of. Hope.

The buoyant feeling in your chest which swells as you picture what dating Bucky might actually be like. How soft his lips would be against yours, how he’d mumble sweet devotions against your skin before tasting every inch of you, how in a room packed to the brim like the bar you’re in now, his eyes search for yours and everyone else in the periphery fades into nonexistence because you are the focal point of his entire world.

But it’s that blind belief which will tear your heart to tatters. Hope will be your cause of death in the end. The expectation of a happy outcome despite all available evidence which will be your ultimate downfall.

“Don’t be ridiculous, look at him, there’s no way he’d ever be interested in me.” But yet, despite how much you tell yourself you’re destined for heartbreak, you can’t quite snuff out that last ember of hope deep in your chest when Bucky turns around with your drink in his hand and smiles reflexively as his eyes set on you all the way across the room.

“I hate it when you put yourself down like that.” There’s a glint in Nat’s eye like she wants to say more, but she notices Bucky returning from the bar and the words die in the back of her throat.

“Here you go, Sunrise.” His nickname for you ignites a flame in both your cheeks, and you’re forced to look down at the table in attempts to hide your reaction. He started calling you that within the first week of moving in, realising your love for staying up to read all night, until the sun came up the following day.

You try not to read into it too much that you are the only person you know of that Bucky has a nickname for. He’s just being friendly. A nice roommate.

“That’s the last time I bet you anything to do with food. Clearly you can eat and drink me under the table any day.” You know he’s just teasing about your bet, who could eat more spicy Indian food without needing to take a drink to subdue the burning heat on your tongue, but any comment related to the amount of food you eat or your weight always hits a little too close to home.

“Thanks Bucky.” Taking your drink from him, your fingers brush, sending goosebumps shivering down your arm, and his dazzling blue eyes regard you with what your hopeful heart believes is warm adoration. “At least you’re not being a sore loser this time round.”

“Excuse you, I’ve never been a sore loser. You just like to bend the rules to suit yourself.” He retorts before taking a sip of his beer, and you find it impossible to look away from how his perfectly plump lips cover the opening and his Adam’s apple bobs as he takes a sip.

You are so far gone for him.

“Sore loser.” You call in a sing-song voice that makes him chuckle in that way you can feel down to your bones. “Don’t blame me just because you can’t handle the heat, Barnes.”

His finger traces a light trail down your bare forearm which lights your skin on fire. You’re not even sure Bucky’s aware he’s doing it, it seems so casually intimate, such a soft touch as his eyes bore into yours, but it sends your brain into a meltdown.

“Oh Sunrise, you don’t know the kind of heat I can bring if I really tried.”

His face is so close to yours you can smell the beer on his breath and see how he wets his lips with a swipe of his tongue. He’s got these freckles scattered along his high cheekbones which reach the tips of his ears, that you want to place delicate kisses to, learn the constellations of pigmentation over his body so you could point them out blindfolded.

And those fucking eyes, they’re impossible not to fall in love with. Those saxe eyes which hold so much wonder and tenderness, which seems to pool in the slightly darker flecks at the centre. You really would be perfectly content if those eyes were the last you ever see, being lured underneath the waves of blue to your doom, but like a siren's victim, you’d dive in with a smile on your face.

There’s a cough from your left which breaks the trance Bucky’s eyes have you in. You would never admit it aloud, but you’d forgotten, just for a brief moment, that your best friend was at the table with you.

Nat’s looking at you with a bold grin and you know before she even opens her mouth that she’s about to say something cheeky and probably completely against your wishes to keep your yearning devotion a secret.

“I’m gonna go up to the bar and see if I can flirt my way to scoring a shot.” She announces as she stands, a shameless look passing between you and Bucky. “Some of us don’t have sex personified living in the next room we can flirt with to buy us free alcohol. You kids have fun continuing whatever that was. Just make sure to use protection.”

Nat walks off without another word, but after her quip, you find you can’t look Bucky quite in the eye.

You’re positive in this moment he’ll laugh at the insinuation that anything remotely romantic or sexual exists between you two and you brace yourself for the puncture to your heart.

But instead, he just looks at you with those big blue eyes and smiles warmly, as if Nat had simply commented about needing to use the restroom to excuse her absence.

“Sex personified, huh? Is that what you two were whispering about behind my back before?” You might just burst into flames if you actually admit that to him, but the cocky smirk he shoots you suggests he is already fully aware how much sex appeal he has.

It feels like your heart is beating in your throat as you answer and you pray he can’t hear the difference in your voice.

“No, not that it’s any of your business, but don’t act like you don’t know how gorgeous you are Barnes.”

There’s a sparkle in his eye as he smiles and scrunches his nose in that way which makes your tummy somersault. You could be fooled into thinking you were back in your apartment alone with him, the only girl within a hundred miles with the way his pupils grow wide and fixate solely on you in this bar crowded with people much more alluring than yourself.

You shake your head, almost imperceptibly, trying to rid your mind of sanguine thoughts that are just setting you up to be greatly disappointed.

You can’t get your hopes up.

There’s a dartboard which becomes available beside your table and you stand with your drink. “C’mon, last weekend you told me you’d show me how to play this ridiculous game and I’m holding you to that.”

It’s not that you don’t already understand the principle of darts, but when Bucky promises to spend more time with you, you’re not about to turn him down.

There’s this gleam in his eye you can’t quite place as he stands and follows you to the dark corner of the bar. You want to believe it’s something of endearment at calling him ‘gorgeous’, a fondness he reserves only for you, but you try reminding yourself that’s the kind of false hope you’ve been desperately shoveling out of your chest and you have to be stronger to not allow such optimistic concepts to penetrate through your defences.

Bucky quickly goes through the rules you were vaguely familiar with already, then shows you how it’s done by throwing two darts into the single twenty score area and then hitting a bullseye. He looks proud of himself too, and it brings a smile to your face just how cute he looks. Is he trying so hard to impress you?

Pushing that thought from your mind, you step up to take your aim. Your first throw goes very astray, not even hitting the dartboard at all, but instead sticking into the wood panelling about a foot below it.

You feel horrified that you’ve just embarrassed yourself, not only in front of Bucky, but the entire bar. Looking around with a sheepish grimace, you find fortunately no one is paying any attention to you, and when your eyes land on Bucky, you can’t help but both burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter that lasts so long you’re cheeks start to hurt.

“It takes a special kind of talent to miss by that much Sunrise.” He snickers, but his eyes still softly gaze at you even as he teases.

“Shut up, it’s my first attempt.” You playfully rib back.

“C’mere, let me show you.” He stands at your back, so close you can smell his aftershave, a spicy cinnamon that reminds you of home, as his touch ghosts along your arms.

He fiddles with your fingers, delicately directing them where he wants them on the dart. You’re pliant to his every command, conforming to the stance he wants you in, you even tilt your head up when he uses two fingers under your chin to carefully guide your eye line to where he wants it.

Holding the small projectile in line with your eyes, you’re extremely aware that Bucky’s examining you, gazing at your profile, the curve of your nose, the undulations of your lips. You feel exposed, like he’s critiquing you, but when the outcome of that is him beaming a besotted smile in your direction, you feel like you must have done something right.

You let the dart fly, barely able to concentrate on where it’s going, too caught up in how close Bucky is, how his hand rests on your waist like he was made to hold you, how his broad chest behind you is as solid as a wall, yet would be the perfect place to rest your head as you fell to sleep every night.

It punctures into the board this time, scoring a measly four points, but it’s sufficient for Bucky to wrap his arms around your middle, rest his head on your shoulder and give you a squeeze as he lowers his husky voice in your ear. “There you go, great job Sunrise.”

You try not to think about how large your stomach is as he holds you, sucking in slightly, instead trying to savour the feeling of being in his arms. If he recognises how fast your heart is now beating against his chest, he doesn’t mention it.

The two of you continue to play your game, forgetting all about the hearty atmosphere of the bar, just enjoying each other's company, and your atrocious attempt at beating Bucky in a game he’s had far too much experience with.

You suspect he downplays his skill - you hope to spend more time alone with you, but more than likely just so you don’t feel completely embarrassed by your endeavours.

Once he’s beaten you for a second time, you find a free table to set yourselves, before you go up to the bar to order a second round. You can’t seem to shake the smile off your face as you give the bartender your order. A sense of light optimism builds in your chest, Bucky’s just given up his night to spend with you as you make a fool of yourself playing darts.

He could be out with anyone, giving them all his attention. But instead he’s with you. Eyes softening and an enchanting smile spreading on his features as if he’s already precisely where he wants to be.

You turn to look back at Bucky to find the one thing in the world that could dampen your high spirits.

He’s sitting at the table where you just left him, chatting up one of the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen.

It’s as if someone’s poured a bucket of ice cold water over you. This devastating, borderline nauseating, chasm cleaving your chest in two is exactly why hope is the most dangerous feeling to cultivate unchecked.

She’s absolutely stunning, with shoulder length blonde hair, a glittery, low plunging top that brings out the radiance in her light eyes and accentuates her fit figure. She’s everything you’re not, everything Bucky deserves, and everything that makes you so acutely aware of how much physical space you take up in the world.

How someone as beautiful as Bucky could never be attracted to the likes of you when women like her walk on this earth.

It feels like there’s a cyclone wreaking havoc in your stomach as you watch their interaction. It looks sort of casual, at least given how far they are seated apart in such a noisy room, but there’s an axe carving your heart into splinters at the mere thought of what flirty chat is bouncing between them, the smile curving on his lips, and you find yourself needing to turn away.

You know you can’t lose what was never yours in the first place, but then why does it feel like your soul is disintegrating and being sucked out of your body through a hole in your sternum?

Bucky’s single, the two of you aren’t even remotely dating, you are purely roommates. You just so happened to have a spare room available at the same time he broke up with his ex and needed somewhere to sleep. You were a convenient solution to the awkward situation he found himself in.

And you’ve never been anything more.

He has every right to flirt, fuck and date whomever he pleases. Which decidedly isn’t you.

You search out Nat who’s over by the other side of the room, your extremities almost feeling numb as you walk past so many groups of friends and handsy partners, knowing that the one person who consumes your entire world simply views you as just someone whom he shares a bathroom with and occasionally bets wagers of buying a round of drinks.

She’s flirting with some handsome, tall stranger who appears to have bought her a couple drinks. You don’t want to ruin her night either, but you know she’d be irate if you disappeared without telling her.

All you want is the comfort of your bed, snuggled underneath a mountain of blankets where you can escape into a world where Bucky isn’t flirting with someone who is both much prettier and much thinner than you.

Should you even go home if Bucky brings her back to the apartment where you’d be subjected to listening to the entire affair?

Probably not, but at this point you just need to get out of here, as far away as possible from the scene which is causing your throat to constrict and tears to sting behind your eyes.

You touch Nat on the upper arm to pull her attention. “Imma head home.”

Her line of sight specifically redirects to the table you were seated with Bucky at, to find the source of your crushing heartbreak.

“Alright, then I’m coming with you.”

“No, please stay, have fun, I’m fine it’s just getting a little loud in here.” You lie through your teeth, but after pretending all night you're not about to start admitting your feelings now. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The look Nat gives you is a clear indication she doesn’t believe your fib, but you simply turn away from her piercing eyes and stalk towards the door, trying to avoid bumping into the crowd of people in your path.

What you don’t realise as you make your hasty exit, head down to avoid watching Bucky flirt with the beautiful blonde, is that he watches with an aching heart as you take every step without so much as saying goodbye - because he notices everything about you, in every scenario, hoping for any fraction of your attention in return.

He swiftly grabs his jacket to chase after you, muttering a quick apology to his coworker he really doesn’t mean. He sees enough of her Monday to Friday for her to consume his weekends as well, especially when it's taking time away which could instead be spent with you.

“Sunrise, wait up!” You hear a very familiar deep voice call from behind you just as you’re about to put on your headphones. You’d know that voice anywhere, even if he hadn’t used your nickname.

“Bucky? What’re you doing?”

“You think I’m gonna let you walk home alone this late at night?” He says with such an ease, as if it were the only possible outcome given the situation. Like he didn’t have a drop dead gorgeous woman in the bar waiting to take him home and do downright pornographic things to him.

“I didn’t mean to ruin your fun. It’s only a couple blocks, I can walk it myself.” You can’t find it in you to feel guilty about pulling him away from the woman inside, especially not when he looks so content having followed you out into the cold night air.

“Firstly, you're daft if you think I’m letting you walk that far by yourself. I’d be worried about you the whole time.” He tilts his head to the side and it reminds you of a sweet puppy gazing at their owner with fondness, willing to pursue them anywhere. “Secondly, you’re not ruining anything. It’s no fun without you there anyway.”

Warmth blooms in your chest that even though it’s just as roommates, you’re the one Bucky’s returning to the apartment with. He’s not going home with Nat, or any other stunning girl he could pull with a single flirty glance. Instead it’s you who he drapes his jacket around when he notices you shivering and slows his large strides to allow you to keep up as you walk casually back home. Taking your time to extend your conversation and absorb the scent of his coat as you pull it tighter around yourself.

Dammit, there’s that incessant hope again.

You really are too enamoured with him for your own good. Even if it wasn’t tonight, you're just setting yourself up for a more agonising downfall in the end.

Part two coming soon

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[timotheechalametsrealgf]

BNHA BOYS REACTING TO YOU PUTING THEM ON YOUR HEAR ME OUT CAKE

feat: K. Bakugou , S. Todoroki , I. Midoriya, N.Monoma , S. Hitoshi

author note!: I haven’t seen this idea being done before so here is my take!

KATSUKI BAKUGOU

Katsuki spends at least 30 minutes on tiktok before going to sleep, so he definitely knows what a “hear me out cake” is.

Initially he laughed when he saw you holding a mini version of a Monoma on a stick “Of course only they would find him attractive” he rolled his eyes as you were explaining your thoughts to a disgusted Mina.

After the pinknets turn, you placed another figure down on the cake. This time it was one of UA top students, Katsuki Bakugou!

At that moment he felt betrayed, bamboozled and might i say offended.

“Why would i be here, i am conveniently attractive!” he shouted at himself. Did you really just assume that him being good looking is a quirky and unique idea!

He immediately called you. The minute you answered, he didn’t even give you time to question the sudden phone call, as he demanded you to take down the video. He then proceeded to yell at you for the next 20 minutes about how “selfish you were for thinking that only you found him attractive, or how he was not a “hear me out”. He then took another 10 minutes explaining how his good looks were a FACT and trying to prove his point by telling you than he benches twice your weight and so on.

At the end of the night you were forced if not HARASSED to take down the tiktok.

SHOTO TODOROKI

Shoto has no idea what a “hear me out cake” is. I doubt he would even have TikTok, so naturally he only found out about the video through Izuku’s fyp. So while the poor boy was scrolling through the app and watching the TikTok you made with Momo, Shoto was watching as well through his friends shoulder. At first he was much disinterested as he couldn’t quite understand why miniatures of his classmates were being placed on a cake by you and Momo.

His interest only piqued when you presented a mini version of him. “what does that mean?” he asked Midoriya who jumped not expected from his friend to have been watching this whole time. The shorter boy tried to explain the concept of “hear me out” but it was to no vail.

Todoroki just assumed that you thought he was ugly. So for the rest of the day he tried to move on, ignoring the sad feeling that shadowed him. His whole life people would praise him for his looks, but the one person whose opinion actually mattered to him…thought he was ugly?

Fortunately Deku was quick with explaining to you the whole situation and you didn’t waist time to confront Shoto.

His sad feelings had automatically vanished when you enlightened him that he wasn’t actually considered a “hear me out” since most people were akin to his looks, you just wanted to point out a different perspective of why you thought of him as attractive, not just because of his facial features.

IZUKU MIDORIYA

Deku was mindlessly scrolling through TikTok when he fell upon a video of you and Ochaco doing the viral “hear me out cake”trend.

The boy was watching the video with much interest, him adding on to your explanations as well. For example when you added Tigress from Kung Fu Panda and you were quick to justify that she had an attractive aura,he also pointed out on her assertiveness.

Non the less, it was safe to say that when his name fell out of your mouth as a picture of him appeared on your hand he was a blushing mess.

Sure he was aware that his shy personality could be an ick for some people, but hearing from you that he was really underrated and that you found him very cute made him malfunction.

For the next few days he couldn’t look at you without blushing. He couldn’t even speak to you without messing up a word or two, but he was more than glad to find out that you were inspired by him. That’s why be wanted to be a hero! To motivate others to try their best, even when the odds are against them.

NEITO MONOMA

Ok let’s be real, Monoma definitely enjoys brain rot and he spends a lot of time on the app. He is always up to date with trends and new slang, so he is definitely aware of what a “hear me out cake is”.

Now, Neito also believes that out of all UA students, he definitely is one of the most attractive, if not THE most!

So rest assured that when he saw you pulling out that miniature version of him and heard you say “im suprised i haven’t seen anyone else point out his looks, he is sooo pretty” he quickly fled to the comments.

He was spamming insults like crazy. Mostly attacking your spacial awareness. “labeling me as a hear me out is crazy”, “get a reality check”, “how could you do this” What offended him more was the audacity to put him on the same cake as Bakugou Katsuki.

To him, it was like you had broken an unspoken rule. So he did what any sane person would do. He made his own version of a “hear me out cake” where he pulled out a bunch of pictures of you,only you.

Kendo who thought they were filming a normal tiktok covered her mouth in astonishment not even bothering to present her picks. “My pick is Y/n because im probably the only person who likes them” he began “another unique pick of mine is Y/n, who only I find attractive” “ and here we have someone new, someone fresh: y/n ladys and gentlemen!, who unfortunately only i recognize the beauty of”

HITOSHI SHINSO

Shinso isn’t really chronically online but i’m sure he has passed by the “hear me out cake” trend. So when he saw you pulling him out of your pocket he quickly understood what you were referring to.

Surprisingly, he was glad to see a person thinking of his quirk as interesting and full of potential. He smiled softly when you said “i could only dream of having a quirk as strong as his”.

It also didn’t go unnoticed by him the way you talked about his looks. How you referred to his eye bags as attractive and his purple hair as astonishingly beautiful. He even allowed himself to chuckle when you noted on his liking of cats, even calling him a “cat dad”.

After the video ended with a few more additions in the cake he found himself searching for your socials and pressing that “message” button.

With a bit of hesitation he texted you something along the lines of “So you like my hair huh?” but it only took him a minute to regret his decision, cringing with himself. He tried to delete the message but you were already typing back.