#and my knowledge on mythologies is poor

[marvelshifter111]

Hey, so you seem to know a lot about different mythologies. I’m having trouble coming up with an idea for my Teen Wolf dr. I was wondering if you knew a creature that had the following abilities:

Nightmare infliction

Dream manipulation

Hallucination inducement/manipulation

Hypnosis

Memory manipulation

Magic

Okay, this took some time because i thought there's a thing in Greek mythology that had these exact powers but i couldn't find it

In Greek mythology there's Oneiroi, they have dream related powers

Changelings and fae from Celtic mythology have magic, memory manipulation, hypnosis and hallucination inducement

I couldn't find any other beings that really have those powers

If you need more info on the powers of these beings, let me know and I'll make a pack

I hope this helps

[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

[fandomizedtrash]

Worthy of an Emperor

Summary: When abundantly worshipped, the Gods would send one of their own to the leaders of Rome as a thank you and reward for their loyalty. As a daughter of Jupiter, you would have never assumed that one day, your peaceful life would be altered forever, as your father sees you as the perfect gift, and bride-to-be for a certain Roman emperor.  (Emperor Geta x daughter of Jupiter!reader)

warnings: Smut, 18+, dubcon, (if you squint), Historical inaccuracies, mythological inaccuracies (come on y'all, who saw this movie for the history), arranged marriage. 

Word count: 2.2k

REQUESTS OPEN

I have not written a fanfic in a very VERY long time so I might be a little rusty. Nonetheless, enjoy!

As a demi-god, your life was more lavish than most young women. Your mother, the daughter of a senator, was seduced by the God many years ago resulting in your conception. And since your birth, a life at court and amongst the most powerful families and men in Rome has been your world. 

Ever since you came of age, nearly every man you passed gazed in your direction. Enchanted by your divinity. Not that you paid it much mind, you were preoccupied with texts, maps, scrolls, and the animals that surrounded the palace. Whatever path your future held was not one that worried you or one you particularly thought about. As long as you had your freedom, what was there to stress about? 

Which is why when your father Jupiter, king of the Gods told you that you were to marry one of the twin Emperors of Rome, you almost laughed in his face. 

“Tell me you are joking?” It was a warm spring day, Summer just on the horizon, while crouching down, you tending to your plants and flowers in the palace garden, your father shot down from the heaven’s in a bolt of lightning startling you. 

“I am afraid I am not. Although I cannot imagine why such news would upset you. Being the bride to one of the most powerful men in all of the Empire.” Your father explained, lecturing you as if you were a child.

“You don’t know Emperor Geta the way I do.” You replied grimly, focusing again at the flora in front of you.

Your contact with the infamous red haired tyrant and his brother has been limited. The few times you were in his vicinity were not particularly found moments. Most of which included the terrible Gladiator tournaments. Spectacles of senseless violence in your opinion. The Emperors would shout and scream and whatever poor souls were sent to fight to the death. The knowledge that he took enjoyment from such brutality gave you everything you needed to know about him. 

What you didn’t know however, was that during these games, the Emperor’s eyes would often wander to search for you in the crowd. It was not a particularly difficult task. You quite literally shined out amongst the mortal spectators, a sight more pleasing than the gory entertainment provided.

During one particular game, as your eyes scanned the box of senators and generals, attempting to distract yourself from the bloody battles below, your vision locked with him. He, like all men who were fortunate enough to gaze upon you, became mesmerized. Your soft skin, and graceful body made Geta dig his nails in the arms of his regal chair at his desire to have you. 

“The Emperor has built me a new temple and has been consistently leaving offerings, being my most faithly worshiper, and in return I have decided to gift him the best thing a God can offer a mortal.”

At this, you shot up from your crouched position. “I am not a present to be offered.” You declared. “I don’t care if he built you a million temples, I would never marry such a man.” Anyone would be crazy to challenge a proclamation from a God, much less the king of them all. But you weren’t just anyone. Divine blood ran through your veins, and your fate would not be bound to a man as sadistic as him. 

“You forget that you don’t have a say in this matter. I can think of worse lives than one as the empress of Rome.” 

“Please.” Your anger had turned to desperation. “I am sure there are other ways to bless and reward Emperor Geta.” 

Your father slowly started walking towards you as he spoke. “I have already promised the Emperor that you are to be his. And I am not one to turn back on an oath.” 

You have never experienced such anger. Promising such a thing before even consulting with you. But a promise from God was as good as done. 

“You need not fret about Geta. He wouldn’t dare hurt a daughter of Jupiter.” You scoffed. Of course your safety was in good hands, but that meant nothing for your happiness. 

“I do hope your sentiment changes. I heard that the wedding is to be the grandest Rome has ever seen.” Another woman would have been bouncing up and down from glee. What you would give to trade places with her. 

“You are to be formally presented to the Emperor tonight. Do make a good impression.” It was the last words your father spoke before a flash of lightning whisked him away to the heavens, leaving you and your racing thoughts alone. 

***

You were escorted by your mother to the main hall where your husband-to-be stood there waiting. Upon hearing the news of your engagement, one might have thought it would be her to marry the emperor. 

“To think that my own girl will soon be the empress of Rome.” She pressed her hand to her heart at the sentiment. “Gods know you were meant for such a life.” 

Your heart was pounding as you made your way to the thrones. Eyes fighting back tears as your destiny awaits you. 

“Emperors.” Your mother began, “may I present my daughter, y/n.” She practically shoved you in front of her, placing you front and center before the twin tyrants. 

“Imperators.” You bowed your head softly at a feeble attempt to humble yourself. 

Geta immediately shot up from his seat to approach you. Eager to get his hands on his eventual wife. 

Taking several paces forward, you and the emperor’s face stood mere inches away from yours as his eyes scanned your face and body, relishing the sight in front of him. 

“Oh yes, she will do quite nicely.” He uttered, sending a nervous chill up your spine. “Your father spoke far too little of how beautiful you are. But there are not enough offerings in the world to thank Jupiter for such a bride. I certainly look forward to having you by my side y/n.” His brown eyes left one more piercing gaze into yours before turning away with the rest of his advisors and senators. 

You let your eyes close as you took a deep breath trying to calm your nerves. 

He wouldn’t dare hurt me. You reminded yourself. You are a daughter of Jupiter, you are part God, there is no future that awaits you that you cannot handle.

***

Everything happened so fast. Within two days, your once peaceful life had turned to non stop preparations for the upcoming nuptials. 

Even you had to admit, the dress given to you was lovely. Chosen by Geta himself, the handmaiden proclaimed as she adorned you in luxurious fabrics and gold. 

You hardly recognized your reflection staring back at you in the mirror. Despite you heritage, you never felt particularly better or more deserving than any other young Roman women. Or your life would be anything too out of the ordinary for a high born.

Looking back now, what a fool you have been. Your whole life, you have been a pawn in-waiting for the fastest man who had the resources to claim a divine bride. And who other than one of the emperors himself. 

The next thing you knew, vows were spoken, music was playing, and every person around you was smiling and laughing, drunk off the finest wines in the Empire. 

“You have hardly touched your food empress.” Geta spoke, drawing attention to the final word of his sentence. 

“I am not a hungry imperator.” You responded, voice sounding as neutral as possible. 

“We are married now, love. Geta will suffice.” 

Unexpectedly. He placed his ringed hand on top of yours. “I do hope that your mother prepared you well for what to expect as a new wife.”

You shuddered as your muscles clenched. Of course you knew, your mother, along with the other ladies at court well explained to you what happens on a wedding night. But with the unexpectedness of it all and the hectic planning, the thought barely crossed your mind. 

Turning to face him finally, you managed to croak out a response. “I am aware.”  

“Splendid.” Geta squeezed your hand fervently. “I hope you know how lucky I am to have you as a bride.” 

“Why me?” You blurted out. It was impossible to keep the question inside of you. “You could have had anyone. Someone to strengthen the growth of the Empire. Just because of my blood does not mean I will serve any use to you or Rome.” Your new husband smirked arrogantly. 

“Our soldiers and generals are stronger than you think. I didn’t marry you for the sake of the Empire. We are already unstoppable. The second I laid my eyes on you in the Colosseum I knew I had to have you. Why do you think I built that damn temple in the first place? For fun?” Your breath got caught in your throat. 

“Caracalla is throwing a fit at the fact that I get to have a divine bride.” He laughed, clearly amused with himself. 

“To think that you are now all mine.” Before you knew it, he smashed his warm lips onto yours in a feaverent kiss.  

“Enjoy the festivities my love.” He broke off the contact suddenly leaving you gasping in shock before turning to you one last time. “I promise what awaits you tonight will be even better.” 

***

It was a warm night, but that did nothing to stop your chills. The party was still in full swing in the halls of the palace, but Geta was growing impatient to have you all to himself, alone. 

You looked out the window and onto the streets. What you would give to be just an ordinary girl, but ordinary was never meant for you. 

“Come here my love.” Geta grabbed your hand and made you face towards him. Like before, he pulled you in for another kiss, this one deeper, more intense, more needy. 

As the kiss continued, Geta started to slowly strip away your clothes. His hands tugged at the ropes holding up your gown and it fell to your feet, leaving you completely exposed.

Once naked, he placed his hand on the back of your neck, lightly squeezing it. “All mine.” His gaze continued to relish the sight of you.  

“Please.” You began. What you were pleading for, you didn’t know, but from what you have seen of the emperor, it was anyone’s guess what he was capable of. 

“Don’t worry, empress, I will be gentle.” guiding you towards the bed, you laid down on the soft mattress, eyes shut so tight you felt they might never open. Perhaps you would be able to find some pleasure in this. From the few whispers you were able to snatch, the ladies of the palace spoke of great satisfaction and delight of their intimate moments with lovers and husbands. While the conditions are not to your liking, maybe there is something to be enjoyed. 

At the foot of the bed, you could hear Geta’s heavy fabrics drop to the ground. A second later, he started climbing on top of you. 

“There is no need to worry.” He whispered in your ear. “You are half god after all, I have every intention of treating you as such.” 

His hands made their way down as his thumb started rubbing your clit gently. 

A moan escaped your lips at the sensation. For the first time this night, your body started to relax, taking in the pleasurable sensation as your new husband had his way with you. 

He soon stopped and his fingers traveled lower, towards your entrance as he slid a finger in and out tortuously. 

“Wet already are we?” His question needed no response. Geta was clearly amused at his once reluctant bride now softly moaning right under him. 

Once you finally felt adjusted, he slid a second finger in without warning, stretching you out even more as his pace continued while sounds of pleasure left your mouth. It felt like an eternity when he finally stopped.

“I’ve waited long enough to have you, I believe my patience has finally run out."

You dared to open your eyes and swallowed at the sight of his erect manhood, not knowing if your body was capable of consuming such a thing. 

Before you had any time to prepare yourself, Geta already started making his way inside of you. 

In one excruciatingly slow motion, the flaming haired emperor stretched you out to the limit as you arched your back. 

Your eyes clenched shut again, trying to adjust to his size. His thrusts were slow, but the pain slowly faded away, replaced by a building pressuring in your sensitive area. 

The thrusts started to pick up pace as you let out another groan. Soon, you felt his fingers touch your chin and lift it upwards.

“Look at me y/n.” He pleaded.

Your eyelids softened, but you did not fully open them, still unwilling to look at Geta in the eyes. 

“Please.” His voice now desperate. Gone was the sadistic emperor you once knew. 

At that, you finally opened your eyes and stared into his dark orbs. His movements became more wild, and the building pressure inside of you reached its climax as you released a sob of relief. 

Geta followed soon after, collapsing on top of you as warm fluids filled your insides. 

You painted, trying to come down from the incredible high you just experienced. 

“I know you don’t love me.” Your husband said, voice a bit dry upon finishing the consummation. “But maybe one day you will.”

[breelandwalker]

Wolf Moon - January 13 2025

Shake off the cold and sing to the sky, witches - it’s time for the Wolf Moon!

Wolf Moon

The Wolf Moon is the name given to the full moon which occurs in the month of January. The name is said to be derived from the sound of wolves howling with hunger while prey is scarce in the midst of winter. Given that we now know that wolves howl mostly for communication, my personal opinion is that people huddled in their homes during a very dark and dangerous time of year probably noticed these sounds a lot more readily with little else to occupy their time as they waited out the winter, and thus were set to worrying about ravenous beasts invading their villages and farmsteads. (It’s worth noting that wolves preying on livestock was a very real concern for most people outside major cities for many centuries, so this isn’t entirely unfounded.)

The name also calls to mind the howling of the wind during winter storms, or whistling around the eaves during the long cold nights. And for those of us who might not have been careful with our spending over the holidays, I might cite a tongue-in-cheek reference to the wolves being at the door when those credit card bills come due.

[For those not familiar with the English phrase, to have “a wolf at the door” is a saying that refers to some imminent hardship or disaster. In modern parlance, this is usually applied to poor finances or looming bankruptcy.]

This month, the moon peaks at 5:27pm EST on Monday January 13th, so the moon may appear to be full on the nights of the 12th or 13th, depending on where you are in the world.

Some North American indigenous names for the month of January and its’ moon are Cold Moon (Cree), Center Moon (Assiniboine), Severe Moon (Dakota), Ice Moon (Catawba), and Spirit Moon (Ojibwe). Other names include Mantis Moon (South African origins), Quiet Moon (Celtic), and Moon After Yule (Anglo-Saxon).

What Does It Mean For Witches?

As a new year dawns, it’s time for rest and reflection before we set out on the next phase of our journey. While the cold weather lingers, take some time to sit by the fire, literally or metaphorically, and take stock of where you stand, what resources are available, and what you plan to do with them.

Check in with your near-and-dear following the mad rush of the holiday season as well. Make sure that friends, family, and community members around you are doing all right. Offer support and kindness where you can, but don’t overextend yourself. It’s your time to recuperate too, and it is good and healthy to set boundaries which allow time and space for yourself.

While it's a bit early to expect progress on our goals and resolutions, the beginning of a new calendar year is a good time to lay the foundation for what we intend to do with the year to come and to reflect on the year that has just ended. It's also the perfect time for self-assessment in your craft. Take a moment to acknowledge where you are, how you've grown, and what you might like to do next. Perhaps do some journaling on the subject, if you're so inclined. You can outline your craft knowledge and beliefs, mark the lessons you've learned, or record your progress. (This is a great way to measure future milestones and personal growth!)

What Witchy Things Can We Do?

Winter is a prime time for storytelling. Back in the days before internet or television or radio, people would often read to each other or tell tales to pass the time. Consider re-reading a favorite book that inspires you or exploring some region of folklore or mythology you’ve been meaning to look into. If you have children who are of an age to enjoy stories, read them some of your favorites or introduce them to something new. Share stories and discussions with your witchy circle too!

While you’re at it, take a moment to examine the role that folklore and stories play in your practice. If you subscribe to a particular mythos, be it through deities or just general belief, consider which parts of it resonate the most with you and why.

Consider also the lessons of the winter season - the necessity of rest between periods of growth and activity, and the role of death, cold, and darkness in the natural cycles of life. What do these things mean to you and your practice? Are they a source of fear or fascination? Do you come alive in the winter or bundle up and wait for spring? How can you best remind yourself to pause for breath as the year goes on?

And of course, the beginning of a new year is an excellent time for goal-setting and divination. You’re making resolutions for your mundane life, so make a few for your craft while you’re at it, and pull out your cards or runes or pendulum for a New Year forecast on how things might go. If you need some ideas or inspiration, you can check out this article on Casting The Bones or try this craft-building exercise to Create Your Own Personal Runes.

Happy Wolf Moon, witches! 🐺🌕

SOURCES & FURTHER READING:

Bree’s Lunar Calendar Series

Bree’s Secular Celebrations Series

Wolf Moon: Full Moon in January, The Old Farmer’s Almanac.

Why The 2025 January Wolf Moon Is So Insanely Powerful, The Peculiar Brunette.

Casting The Bones: How to Read and Throw Bones, The Peculiar Brunette.

Witchcraft Exercise - Creating Your Own Runes, Bree NicGarran. (Masterlist here)

Moon Info - Full Moon Dates for 2025

Calendar-12 - 2025 Moon Phases

Everyday Moon Magic: Spells & Rituals for Abundant Living, Dorothy Morrison, Llewellyn Publications, 2004.

Image Source: What Is A Wolf Moon?, The Fact Site.

(If you’re enjoying my content, please feel free to drop a little something in the tip jar, check out my monthly show Hex Positive, and find my published works on Amazon or in the Willow Wings Witch Shop. 😊)

[luvyeni]

❛CUPID AND HIS ANGEL❜ ( l. know )

💬nia's notes: i seen the shoot and got hella inspired.

p. cupid!leeknow x angel!reader w. 2.5k+

warnings? yandere themes, corruption kink, talks of blood, oral (m. receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, breeding kink, poor knowledge of greek mythology ( like zesus should strike me down), leeknow is referred to as both lk and cupid.

— 𖦹 ( youre lee knows precious angel, and he'll be damned if he shoots his arrow into your hear for anyone but himself ) !

“she is a beauty, isn’t she?” lee know stared at the photo in front of him, ready to snap his bow and arrows in half. “she isn’t a goddess by any means, just a mere angel, but she’s special.” he knew who you were, he’d been watching you since you arrived here in olympus, he already claimed you as his. “you want me to use my arrows on a useless angel?”

he didn’t mean to be so harsh, but if this male angel found out he also had an eye out on you, he’d surely try and start a war over it – and lee know didn’t bother for another war, nor did he wish bloodshed, but he’d spill the angels blood all over olympus if it meant you’d be his alone – plus the angel would never win against lee know, he was a god of course, but that wouldn’t stop him, male angels are very prideful. “please, i’ll pay you a generous amount.” lee know smiled, tapping the table. “of course.” the angel put the sack of gold on the table, lee know scooped up the bag, putting it in his pocket. “good day to you.” he turned to walk away. “so you’ll do it?” he turned back facing the angel. “consider it already done, i’ll inform you when it will take place.” he smirked walking out of the establishment.

of course he wasn’t gonna do it, no way was he gonna let you be taken from him by some lowly angel, no you deserved more than that – you deserved to be treated like the goddess you really were, spoiled with many jewels and dresses, to eat the best foods… you deserved to be with him, he could give you all that and more.

of course, he already knew where you hung out, in the fields with the other angels, he’d often watch you picking flowers, your wings fluttering behind you, perfect for him. “hi my precious little angel.”

you turned around to face the voice, with a smile, it was your friend leeknow, you smiled running over to him. “hi cupid.” you teased, he smiled, patting your head. “i told you to call me leeknow.” you chuckled. “i know, but i like teasing you.” you were so cute, so unaware of the explicit things he thought about doing to you. “are you here to stay or are you gonna go make people fall in love today.” he shook his head, he only had one person he was gonna make fall in love today – and she was standing right in front of him. “no i’m just here to watch you today, make sure you’re being the good angel i know you are.” he took a flower from your pile. “(y/n), come!” your friend called for you. “go little angel, i’ll be here when you’re done.”

he sat down watching you run over to your friend who wanted to show you something in the grass, probably a animal or something – he didn’t mind, he had business to attend to. pulling out his trusty bow, along with a single love arrow, he waited for yours and your friend to be far enough so you’d be to look at him first, but you won’t see him shoot you, before aiming the arrow, making sure to wait for the exact moment – lord knows that if he shot your friend by accident he’d sure end up killing them, he didn’t want anyone else but you, and was willing to do anything, and he couldn’t have that if he has a stupid little angel floating around here actually thinking he’d love them, no all his love was for you.

once you were in the right place, he wasted no time, letting the arrow go, shoot right in the heart, right where it needed to be. he saw you stumble, meaning the arrow did hit you – making direct eye contact with him. he smiled, and just as he planned, you dropped the flowers, waving goodbye to your friend, running over to him. “you’re back my little angel.” you smiled, he seen the look in your eyes. “pretty little angel.” he held the flower he took from you, placing it behind your ear. “leeknow, i feel- shh, i know angel, let’s get you back to my castle okay?”

lee know was ecstatic, the magic from the arrow seemed to hit faster than anyone he ever shot before, you were all over him on the ride back, to the point he had to hold your wrist down to keep you from unbuckling his pants, “angel stop it.” he sighed as you pressed warm kisses to his neck. you pouted, whining. “but why, i just want to show you that i love you so much.” he smiled, this is exactly what you wanted. “yeah? you love me?” you nodded. “yup, so so much.” he chuckled. “and i love you too angel, but you have no clue what you’re doing, just wait a little while longer, and i’ll show you exactly how you can show me how much you love me.”

as soon as you touched the inside of your castle he was taking you to his chambers, not even caring to explain to the maids, close his door, leaving you both alone. you rushed to kiss him, he finally allowed you to, it was messy, due to your lack of knowledge of how to kiss someone or do anything in a sexual nature at in general. he pulled away grabbing both your cheeks. “calm down my little angel, you don’t even know what you’re doing.” he chuckled. “let me guide you, okay? i’ll give you anything you want, just submit to me.”

Your body finally calm down some, he smiled. “good girl, now undress for me.” you untied the string of your dress, that was tied around your neck, letting it fall, uncovering your boobs, the cold air hitting your nipples. “perfect, my perfect little angel.” he brought his hands up to your nipples, pinching them, you whimpered at the sensation. “sensitive baby.”

he sat down in the chair, patting his lap. “come here pretty.” you moved to where here was, standing in between his legs. “be my sweet little angel and get on your knees for me.” you obeyed, sinking down on your knees, looking up at him. “good little angel, listen so well for me.” he caressed your face, the lovesick look in your eyes making him smile. “gonna do whatever i ask you, be a good angel for me.” you nodded. “anything.”

he let your face go, sitting back to unbuckle his slacks, pulling them down along with his underwear, his cock slapping again his abdomen, his hissed at the cold air. “are you hurt?” your eyes filled with worry, he let out a dry laugh. “no angel, i’m fine.” he groaned, stroking his cock in front of your face. “you want to show me how much you love?, prove to cupid how much you love him?” you nodded. “i do.”

he grabbed the base of his cock, bringing it to your pink glossy lips. “open for me angel.” you slowly parted your lips, he slid his cock into your mouth, moaning as he guided you down his length. “there we go angel, keep going, don’t use your teeth.” you took as much as you could, until his tip hit the back of your throat. “pretty girl, my cock is too big for your little mouth.”

you shook your head, desperate to please him, you tried to take him further down, gagging around his length. “you really want to please me little angel, you took me all the way.” he threw his head back as you worked your mouth up and down, eventually getting the hang of it. “sh-shit you’re a natural angel.” the god was losing his mind, the way your mouth worked on his cock, he had to grip the chair to keep from grabbing your head, fucking up into your mouth – not wanting to frighten you during your first time, plus you both had all the time in the world, both of you being immortal, he had all the time in the world to fuck your face, teach you and corrupt you even more than he was about to.

“fuck angel, angel i’m about to cum.” he groaned. “wanna cum in your mouth okay? gonna fill your mouth with my cum.” you hummed, he grabbed the back of your head, pushing it down until your nose poked his pubic bone. “breath through your nose angel.” he groaned out, stilling your head. “ngh, fuck angel, i’m cumming!” his cock twitched before you felt his warm cum hit the back of your throat. “mhm shit, take all my cum love.” he cursed, his cum filling your mouth.

he finally released your head; you coughed, spit and cum wetting your lips as you caught your breath. “did i do well?” your voice was scratchy due to his previous assault, he smiled at your need to please him – even though he was the cause of it. “yeah angel, you did good.” he said grabbing your cheek, wiping the cum from your lips. “now it’s time for me to show you how much i love you now.”

he helped you up, guiding you to the bed. “lay down angel.” you complied, laying down, your wings spread behind you, your skin glowing, you were truly a beauty. “such a pretty creature.” he lifted the skirt of your dress up on your waist, your white panties on display. “so fucking pretty angel.” he kissed your navel. “spread your legs for me angel.”

he sat on his knees between your legs, the wet spot in the middle of your panties, proving your arousal. “look at the mess you made angel, you love me that much?” he rubbed you through your panties. “leeknow.” you whimpered, your eyes widened at the noise that so easily came out of your mouth. “it’s normal sweet angel, it’s just you showing how much you love me.” he moved your panties to the side, your cunt soaked with your juices. “look so sweet angel, gonna let have a taste later.” it didn’t sound like a question, and lee know didn’t mean it as either, he would spend the rest of eternity in between your legs, but he was equally as desperate to fuck you, his cock swelled just at the thought. he pushed a finger into your hole, you whimpered out his name in reaction. “that feels nice angel?” you nodded. “i’ll let it slide this once angel, but when i speak to you, you use your words, okay?” he pressed a second finger at your hole. “you want another?”

“pl-please.” you moaned as he added the second finger, using his thumb to rub your clit. “sweet angel your little cunt is squeezing my fingers like crazy.” he said. “you’re barely taking them, how can you take me cock if you can’t even take my fingers.” you whined. “i-i can, i promise.”he smiled, speeding up his movements, curling his fingers. “you gotta cum on my fingers first then, gotta open you up to take my cock.”

you felt something, your thighs began to tremble, your legs trying to close around leeknows wrist, but he held them open. “s-something- shh let it out angel, this is a good thing, that means you’re about to cum, be a good angel and cum all over my fingers.” on his word, you felt yourself release, cumming on his hand. “le-leeknow.” your body convulsed as he worked you through your orgasm, pulling his fingers out, bringing them to his lips. “oh fuck angel, you taste so good.” he groaned, tapping on your sticky clit.

“you ready for cock angel?” he rubbed his length on your folds, your juices coating his cock. “y-yes.” your whimpers turned into a loud moan as he slowly entered you, the tip of his cock alone stretching your cunt. “leeknow.” he sighed, his cock sinking into your cunt, your walls gripping him like vice. “fu-fuck angel, your cunt is squeezing me like crazy.” he grunted. “relax your pretty cunt for me, let me in.” he slowly moved his hips, taking his cock out, pushing back in.

you were a mess as he slowly moved inside you, the uncomfortable feeling slowly subsiding, turning into pure pleasure. “m-more.” that’s all he needed to speed up his movements, your moans bouncing off the walls of his chambers as he fucked you. “that’s it angel, take all of my cock.” his hand toyed with your nipples, pinching them.

you felt like you were floating, the tip of his cock slamming into your cervix. “are you going dumb on my cock already angel?” he chuckled. “it’s okay love, i’ll be right here, your love will be here when you come back.” he lifted your hips fucking deeper into you.

“fu-fuck angel, gonna make you my wife.” he grunted. “give you everything you deserve.” he promised. “no one will ever be able to harm you.” you listened to his confession, unable to speak. “sh-shit you’re clenching so tight around me, gonna cum aren’t you, tell me you love me first, i want to hear you say it.” he grabbed your chin. “i-i love you, i love you so much.” you mustered out. “lee-leeknow i’m gonna cum!” you screamed.

“cum for me angel, cum for me so i can fill your little cunt with my cum.” his words alone made you yell out his name as you came, your thighs shaking. “fuck angel, you came so fast -shit- you want my cum that bad, want to have my children, give me a heir?” you nodded, wrapping your legs around his waist. “p-please.” his hips began to falter, his thrust becoming more messy. “fu-fuck angel, i’m gonna cum, gonna fill your pretty cunt up -ngh- fuckfuckfuck.” he cursed, his cum filling your cunt up. “take my cum, my little angel.”

your body laid there limp, your eyes fluttering close. “little angel are you sleepy, my cock made you that tired?” he chuckled as you nodded. “go ahead and sleep, i’ll clean your sweet body up.” that’s all you heard before you drifted off to sleep.

“you cannot enter cupids chambers right now he is-.” his door swung open, lee knows eyes opened, the angry angel making his way in. “you bastard! you’re a thief and a crook.” he yelled at the god, you can tell he was angry, because not even a prideful angel would dare do what he was doing. “you stole my gold and my angel.”

your eyes opened due to the commotion. “leeknow?” leeknows eyes darken upon hearing your voice. “you woke up my little angel with all your yapping.” he said. “your angel? she’s supposed to be mine!” the angel yelled. “enough of this.” leeknow belted. “why would i need your gold? you’re a lowlife.”he scoffed, the angel stood there fuming. “now get the fuck out before i have you killed, you’re scaring my wife.” with a snap of his fingers, two guards came in dragging the male out. “who was that?”

he turned to you, starring up at him. “just a upset customer, don’t worry about you’ll never see him again.” he dipped under the blanket, kissing your thighs. “wh-what are you doing?” you stuttered.

“gonna eat my little angels pretty pussy.”

©LUVYENI

[alatismeni-theitsa]

In "KAOS" nothing is anything, and everything is wrong

Two disclaimers: I am no stranger to modern art, and I have no issue with queerness in shows, or in my own mythology (I'm Greek). I am also aware that KAOS is a comedy. It's in the gutter of British comedy, but still part of the genre. At least I laughed every time they said "Oh God!". I don't believe this is the same person who wrote the great and amusing "End of the F**king World"! The premise of "The gods in our modern world" appeals to me a lot, so that wasn't my problem either. My general issue with KAOS is its horrible delivery, bad writing, and piss-poor Greek representation.

This is gonna be long and full of stupid gifs, so sit comfortably, grab a coffee or some popcorn and... pame!

The "ILoveGreekMythology" Kid

Art without context is just a pretty thing to look at. Most of the time, this context can be found within the art piece itself, as the artist has taken care to weave it in. KAOS refuses to connect itself to any context besides the names and a few vague powers. It aims to exist outside of those "boring old stories of the Greek myth" and be entirely "fresh and modern". Something impossible when the entire show and the meanings are based on ancient recorded material. In other words, KAOS is so meta that it ends up being nothing. KAOS cannot stand on its own because you need more than the viewers being familiar with the Greek myth basics to pull such a show off.

KAOS tells us "See? I know all the names of the gods, and what they did, and I know all the locations, so I am qualified to tackle this". More or less like any Western kid who takes all their knowledge from PJO and Marvel and proceeds to unironically hate ancient deities and make a girlboss out of Medusa.

Here's a Greek word for you guys, ημιμάθεια, meaning "half-knowledge". Α Greek saying very well declares "Half-knowledge is worse than no knowledge". The confidence of thinking you know enough often leads you to grave mistakes whereas the humility of not knowing prevents you from touching shit that you shouldn't. When you have no idea what the original myth is trying to say and spit on its meaning, knowing a few names and locations is just smoke and mirrors. I don't believe the audience fell for that.

And don't get me started on the "subversions". A good subversion is intriguing and thought-provoking. In KAOS, every twist was hollow - Greek myth related or otherwise.

"What if Euridice doesn't love Orpheus?" I don't know, babe. What if??? What was the point of that? What did you show us? That women's stories are dominated by men and men don't listen to women, perhaps? And you chose to twist... the love story of Orpheus and Euridice to show this?? One of the best and most tragic love stories Greek mythology has to offer?? You just mocked the myth, you didn't make anything profound out of it.

The Greek Stuff (Nothing salvageable)

I was surprised to see they had a Consulting Producer (Georgia Christou) and an Assistant Script Editor (Isabella Yianni) who happen to be Greek. And I stress that because those people probably weren't hired or utilized for being Greek. We are not sure they were involved in cultural decisions because we have no evidence and because shows with no Greek elements can have more Greeks than that on their staff.

Okay, perhaps they took 5 seconds to ask Isabella about a greeting - which they proceeded to say in a wrong intonation 🙄🤌It's where Poseidon says "ya sás" in the Fates, by the way. How he said it sounds more like "for you (pl.)" than "health to you (pl.)".

Surprise! The only Greek actor present (Peter Polycarpou) has less than 5 minutes of screen time and plays the caricature of an immigrant with a thick (and inaccurate Greek) accent. He has a canteen, selling falafel which is not Greek, and Dionysus buys from him an unidentified tortilla wrap (which... is also not Greek, if you haven't caught up).

For the show they brought in actors of Maori, Nigerian and Sierra Leonean, Pakistani, Black American, Latvian-Jewish, Iranian, Egyptian, Indo-Fijian and Malay descent and you tell me it was impossible for them to seek and find an English-speaking, skilled actor of Greek descent in a show regarding Greek heritage. Sometimes I wonder, do y'all hate us so much?

They considered Greeks only to give us a simple (and wrong) greeting and a stereotype. Crumbs, we are supposed to be happy with. By the way, there are over 70.000 Greek immigrants just in the UK, usually in the urban centers, many of them students or fairly young employees in the corporate workforce. Not the largest minority but not hard to spot either.

Another plague of Anglophone shows: Almost everyone's Greek name is shortened. Yes, we know their full names but we are told that we will use the short ones. Greeks and their "long and difficult" names am I right fellas? Because saying "Ariadne" apparently requires 5 years of Greek language training, and no English word ever has more than two syllables.

Coincidentally, short names are cool in Anglophone imaginary universes and the "long" names are not. it's so strange Anglophones never make universes where it's cool for Greek names to be spoken in full hmmm... They don't even want to practice saying a whole Greek name for just 2 minutes in preparation for a show full of Greek names. And don't give me that "Greek is hard" shit when we only talk about a few syllables. If Greek kids can learn English since first grade and people here can sing English songs and spell English names, you have no excuse.

They also said the name "Fotis" means light, which is close enough but... ugh.. It's like saying Sebastian means "respect". I am not sure if they asked anyone or what their research was here. If I had the writers in front of me, I'd be like:

(This character from an all-time favorite Greek show is called Fotis)

They also made the flag of "Krete" an alteration of the Greek flag and the local Cretan flag. Which is the stupidest move, because they had to remove the religious symbol of the cross to make the flag fit the universe. These are flags created based on 1) Christianity 2) the Greek Revolution of 1821.

National Greek flag to the left, local Cretan flag to the right:

Flag of the KAOS' "Krete":

The only time they seriously took into account anything Greek, was the time when they decided to remove the religious symbol of our ethnoreligion AND (from what I could observe) keep the nine stripes?? The nine stripes of our national flag represent the syllables in "Freedom or Death". The colors are from the white foustanela of the mainland attire and the dark blue vraka of the island attire, the clothing of the Revolution fighters. (That's more of a meta explanation but the characteristics of the flag were decided during and nearly after the Revolution.)

I think I don't have to explain it more but it's not a homage to put the nine stripes in an ancient era where they have no meaning, and to replace a cross??? Let's... not replace religious symbols on national flags, okay? Thank you.

Another cultural element they changed was making everyone have a dedicated coin to pay Charon. Orpheus has Euridice's coin, "her coin", and he's meant to put it on her before she got buried. In Greek culture, any coin would do. Sorry that our culture restricts your script, dear writers. I guess you had to bend this too, in order to create a cohesive plot with a semblance of a twist.

Finally, the many "Kerberus" dogs were cute and I can understand the creative decision behind that. However, in a show full of inaccuracies, this made me roll my eyes a little. I think the showrunners know that Kerveros is not a breed of dog, and there can only be one of him because he doesn't have any other "Kerveros" to breed with. On the other hand, as demonstrated from art/writing on the internet, quite a lot of Westerners are not exactly aware of how our monsters work, so forgive my uncertainty 😅

Nothing is Anything

Every element KAOS played with ended up meaningless. In the words of a Lifo article:

“Zeus is a paranoid authoritarian dictator in mid-life crisis who fears losing his power and murders his aides to vent. Hera is a promiscuous goddess who repeatedly betrays Zeus and has mutilated mute priestesses for protection. Dionysos is a spoiled and immature zoomer who, apart from pranks, indulges in orgies with all genders. Poseidon a sadistic god of the sea, who tortures the crew on his ship for fun. Prometheus is gay and killed his lover so he could overthrow Zeus. Orpheus is a famous pop singer and Eurydice does not love him. Theseus is black and gay. The Erinyes are tough-as-nails mechs that look like they stepped out of ‘Sons of Anarchy’. The Fates resemble a three-member jury in a talent show. The Trojans are a terrorist group that acts against the gods. Crete is more reminiscent of California than the Mediterranean.”

The "River Styx" is a sea, the "River Lethe" is a lake, the gods are nothing more than spoiled humans, the Moirai are drag queens, the Cave is a club where you have to take a quiz to enter the underworld, and generally everything is modern, flat, mundane and anticlimactic. The producers aimed to achieve a work so meta that a "river" is now a concept, a metaphor, whatever you have in your heart. And those who want to see a river when we speak of a river are probably uncultured swines and don't understand postmodernism. Never mind that rivers are rivers in Greek mythology for a reason. That's not culturally interesting enough to explore compared to the new, cool approach of not assigning meaning to anything. That totally shows love for the original rich and meaningful material...

And the reason behind all this subversion? Probably the shock factor. They brought the characters to a point where they said "We have to save the world from Zeus" - Zeus! The father of gods, heroes and humans! - just because they could. It gives off a certain type of smugness that I personally don't like. I mean, I would like the smugness and cheekiness of KAOS if it wasn't a vapid and practically meaningless show. As nothing symbolizes anything anymore, we are just led from hollow plot point to hollow plot point.

If you cut it out of any cultural influence and see it as a story then it's... okay, I guess. But when you consider that it's meant to derive from certain material and it fails spectacularly, it's not a good story. It forgets its bases and doesn't play with the ancient elements at all. Disney's Hercules did it better, FFS!

Bad Writing (pt.1)

KAOS is not without recognizable themes but their demonstration is so juvenile and heavy-handed that it fails to influence a viewer of average intelligence. For instance, "Riddy" says to her religious mother "You dedicated your whole life to Hera, what about me?" Okay, KAOS, we get it. At the same time, this theme nulls itself because it turns out that Ridy's mother was right to do what she did, as she had a greater goal in mind. (And this, kiddos, is called Bad Writing, because your themes and scenes contradict each other)

The biggest theme I spotted was a criticism of religion and religious people who say "Do as I say, not as I do" and create exceptions for themselves. Only, it's not a criticism of anything real, in this case. It's a fact that some people in the clergy tend to preach peace and love and then they do harm, but we don't know, for example, that The Goddess of Marriage is a cheater and yet she pressures everyone into strict marriages. By focusing their wrath on divine beings who are not known for their hypocrisy, the creators missed the mark.

I can give KAOS props for how it handled Trojans to reflect real issues regarding how immigrants and war refugees are mistreated and blamed. I'd argue it was the only (nearly) well-done theme in the whole show because it had the least on-the-nose delivery and some genuine/serious scenes. But that's it.

More Bad Writing!

Jeff Goldblum's Zeus is shit. He'd crap his pants in an argument with a stern Greek dad/uncle his age. Is this character supposed to be intimidating? (Laughs in Mediterranean) That's not to say that Goldblum is not a good actor, but this role wasn't for him. The same can be said for the other actors, too. They are competent but they only give off the air of "The Greek gods if they lived in London, from the minds of people who think beards and body hair are an affliction". In addition to being misplaced, the actors cannot show their talent when following a script that resembles a children's book.

Why does THE GOD Dionysus have the maturity of a 15-year-old? I repeat, The God Dionysus. He's a freaking deity, and a very old one at that. He is not a teenager neither in appearance nor in experience. In our culture, he is mystical, mighty, wise. Why did they downgrade him so? Just for the plot? This is not Dionysus just because you named him so.

The dialogue rarely takes itself seriously to the point it has you wondering at times "Do people talk and behave like that?". In a comedy where everything is meant to be already extreme and parodied. Even in comedies, something must occasionally be serious so there is a healthy fluctuation in tone and the funny moments can hit you. In KAOS very few scenes treated their impactful dialogue as it should be treated.

The queerness and diversity (good elements, in general) were worse off for being in KAOS. Like, I want these elements to be there. I'm just sad about the whole situation. It's not enough that the show is shit, now you also give an additional reason for conservatives to shit on diverse and queer characters because they are part of a stupid narrative.

I'm the type of person who doesn't mind the queerness of Astyanax and Theseus being lovers in the context of this specific show but they're still the oddest pairing to me because they're from the most irrelevant myths and eras. Also, Astyanax in my mind is a baby who died tragically, for little reason if we are honest, so to bring him back and make him a love interest is... ekh.

In addition, isn't Astyanax supposed to be crippled after a fall from the city walls when he was a baby? Sorry to change subjects but the show is so convoluted and with so many issues that it's extremely difficult to stay on track with what's wrong.

To the person who thought this show was a good idea:

Whatever. Bye. I'm fucking done.

[forbidden-sorcery]

Civilization is socially constituted violence against the Earth. Civilization has always been the mission of colonizers. It is carved deeply throughout the text of their laws and into our flesh. The imposed literacy of settler violence is the way we learn to read and tend to the scars that track this chronology of colonial conquest named history. These are the unhealed and partly healed wounds spreading in all directions that map the specter of abuse that are documented as the progression of religion, capital, democracy, and civilization. It is unwritten in cultural knowledge buried in a shallow boarding school mass grave located in the vacuous space between mythology and sin. This literacy is what sanctions the destruction and desecration of the sacred. It declares, “I’m wearing this headdress because I appreciate your culture.“ It declares, “The wastewater we’re spraying on your sacred site is clean enough to drink.” It insists, “That was in the past, I’m not responsible for the actions of my ancestors.” It admonishes, “They’re on the street because they’re lazy.” It contemplates “poor and angry Indians contrasted with respectable ones.” It declared utopia while slaughtering and enslaving millions. It wrote in blood and pus, “The only good Indian is a dead Indian.” It declared, “Tradition is the enemy of progress.” It shifts phrases and dresses the meaning in newly ironed clothes that smell of starch, piss, and appropriation. It asserts and justifies itself advising the worth of all things. As it has so benevolently graced us with a cross, bible, and tried to kill the living spirits of the Earth. It incessantly reminds us of our place in the value of things (usually on the scale of most victimized) through gritted teeth, through its dispossessions, through its dehumanizations. The literacy of settler violence is what haunts those who are overcome by their pain and succumb in the silence of the slow terror that eats us from within. It is codified in laws that make sleep a crime. It is the recurring nightmare that is drowned in a bottle that is shattered on the roadside, its millions of green and crystalline shards reflecting the compounded horrors possessing the dispossessed. In this glittering world, it is only ever with more brutality that the dazzling literacy of settler violence is enforced. Colonial occupation is the constant promise of settler violence.

Klee Benally - No Spiritual Surrender: Indigenous Anarchy In Defense of the Sacred

[the-barefoot-hatter]

Hi, i just learned about the niblings Pyramid Steve AU and i love it but now i have so many questions. that i am going to dump here now lol. Is Bill jealous that Pyramid Steve can access both the mindscape and the physical world? I like to imagine that he was born like Athena from Greek Mythology since he was created in a dream. Or maybe does it not work that way, it's like Looney Tunes rules where anything can happen just as long as it's funny lol? Is Pyramid Steve existing in the physical world more of a motivator for Bill to demand that Ford finish the portal asap? If Ford learns about the original purpose of the portal, will he think that Bill made Pyramid Steve as a manipulation tactic? Would he be emotionally devastated, thinking poor Pyramid Steve was given life because he was merely a pawn in his sick father's mind games, and try to protect Pyramid Steve from Bill, not accepting Bill's insistence that he is just as confused as Ford? Or would he think that Pyramid Steve is "in on it" with Bill? If something goes down like what happens in canon, who is taking Pyramid Steve in the divorce? 😂

eeeee, a fan! I'm glad you like it! my au tag is the: non euclidean geometry au search it up on my tumblr for a bunch more silly little comics <3 the nibling comic is where I started actually really thinking and adding continuity, so some of this is wobbly/subject to change:

Is Bill jealous that Pyramid Steve can access both the mindscape and the physical world?

A little bit! Also very proud, because LOOK how ADVANCED his baby is!!! Obviously the BEST BABY! (Oh, your's can sit up on it's own? what cute little accomplishment there, you must be so proud)

I like to imagine that he was born like Athena from Greek Mythology since he was created in a dream. Or maybe does it not work that way, it's like Looney Tunes rules where anything can happen just as long as it's funny lol?

A bit of both! They aren't exactly sure how Pyramid Steve was made, since he popped up right after karaoke night and memories are... hazy lol

Is Pyramid Steve existing in the physical world more of a motivator for Bill to demand that Ford finish the portal asap?

Yes, absolutely! You can't separate family!

(also having a baby around is making Bill much more tired/slip up about what's really going on/change his plans for the benefit of his family, so the result of opening portal is bit less end-of-the-worldy. probably)

If Ford learns about the original purpose of the portal, will he think that Bill made Pyramid Steve as a manipulation tactic? Would he be emotionally devastated, thinking poor Pyramid Steve was given life because he was merely a pawn in his sick father's mind games, and try to protect Pyramid Steve from Bill, not accepting Bill's insistence that he is just as confused as Ford? Or would he think that Pyramid Steve is "in on it" with Bill?

lol, well you see, this Ford is slowly coming to realize that his Bill is not actually a Muse of Knowledge but is in fact just some guy. A smart but so, SO stupid guy with a lot of issues. It's more like the horror of finding out the guy you are seriously dating has been faking his entire resume, but has been real with you, emotionally. Just not about his job or his background or his initial intentions and oh god, he's dating a stan-type conman. And the conman fell for his mark.... Is his life some sick hallmark movie?? (They love each other and will work it out)

but IF this AU went the darker paranoia/betrayal route like in canon, Ford wouldn't think Pyramid Steve's in on it (because Ford is paranoid but he can recognize that PS is just an innocent baby). Ford would be utterly gutted at being 'baby-trapped' and pretty resistant to listening to Bill about the situation at all, because Ford is a pretty unforgiving guy prone to dramatic grudges, especially once he learns you lied to him.

If something goes down like what happens in canon, who is taking Pyramid Steve in the divorce? 😂

;-; oh, that be a tough one!

Bill is much more powerful, but Ford is scrappy and determined!

IF this AU went the paranoia/betrayal route like in canon, and Bill has Pyramid Steve, Ford will stop at nothing to get him back/kill Bill. If Ford has Pyramid Steve, Bill would be a thousand times more desperate to escape the Nightmare Realm and get them BOTH back/on Bill's side.

(ps, i welcome anyone else playing with these setups, just link me so i can enjoy them too <3)

[wingedfoolnearthesun]

☼ Introduction Post ☼

☼ Welcome in! This blog was made to keep track of my journey and progress as I discover myself through this faith. I’m still attached to my previous religion. I consider myself to be a casual, laidback christopagan (subject to change as I am not that big on many labels).

☼ On the same note, this blog will be a devotional altar to the deities i worship. the posts i make regarding Them, the digital offerings, and any guidance i’m able to share will be done in Their names ♡

☼ I’ll be sharing many of my experiences and the things I’ll be learning throughout the journey. This includes both the good and the bad. I tend to ramble about my thoughts concerning certain topics/situations I’ve been in.

☼ I currently worship Lord Apollo, Lord Hermes, Lord Thanatos, Lady Hestia, and Lord Hypnos. I might consider reaching out to directly worship other deities when i have the mental capacity to do so.

☼ My patron deity is Father Thanatos ♡

About Me

☼ My name is Sunny

☼ My pronouns are they/he

☼ I’m a gay aroace spec (demiace/demiaro+ cupioromantic) transmasc enby

☼ I am neurodivergent (although i haven’t been able to get a proper diagnosis) and struggle with poor mental health, please do take that into consideration and remember to be kind ♡

☼ I’ve always been interested in greek mythology, so I do have some substantial knowledge regarding the gods

☼ Some of my interests include EPIC The Musical, OMORI, TGCF, MDZS, Studio Ghibli (particularly Spirited Away and Howl’s Moving Castle), and TGAA

☼ I’m a psychology major ^^ with a particular interest in forensics, criminology, and neuropsychology

☼ Despite my posting, I’m not really good at maintaining conversations with people. Do not let that deter you from reaching out, however. I’m always happy to listen and talk when needed ♡

DNI

don’t interact if you’re racist, homophobic, transphobic, misogynistic (basic DNI criteria)!!

credit to @messywitch for the user boxes and @adornedwithlight for the divider <3

[luxnaiadis]

I thought you had my number

Pt1

Terzomega

Terzo was sitting on the front stair railing, chewing a watermelon-flavored gum that had already lost its taste. His eyes were fixed on the bland garden that Primo tended to like a child. Copia had suggested that the eldest of the brothers kept the garden so he could bury bodies there. And Primo, to everyone’s suspicion, just kept eating his spaghetti in silence. The third son of Nihil wore a black trench coat down to his knees, with black buttons and a high collar. Secondo had called him Sherlock Holmes in the living room, which made Terzo blush and lower the collar. Underneath, he wore a gray turtleneck that had already started to bother him after three minutes, dark jeans, and his favorite combat boots—one of which had a hole in the sole, but he wouldn’t show the bottom of his shoes to anyone, after all. So screw it. His dark hair fell in a purposely messy way, his bangs already reaching his mismatched eyes, forcing Terzo to blow the strands away every minute, since he refused to take his hands out of his deep pockets.

The sound of the front door slamming made him turn his head, slowly.

“I’m going in front,” Copia announced from inside, wearing a black jacket covered in band patches he didn’t actually listen to, and a small Pazuzu from The Exorcist movie. Terzo preferred the one from Mesopotamian mythology and constantly criticized Hollywood’s poor adaptation of the demon god. Of course, he loved the classic film, but after being inexplicably obsessed with Pazuzu for five straight months, Terzo had gained enough knowledge to make critiques he usually kept to himself—since Secondo often told him to shut up when he started talking. His younger brother’s brown hair was slightly slicked back, headphones hanging around his neck, under the jacket, a black T-shirt with Remy from Ratatouille on the chest, dark jeans, and red sneakers on his feet.

“You went in front last week,” Terzo grumbled, sliding off the railing. When he was about ten, he had tried the same move and broke his right arm. Well, cracked his elbow—but it didn’t make it any less painful. “And the seat almost didn’t come back up from how much you reclined it.”

“And Primo’s girlfriend broke up with him because of that. She thought he had cheated on her that night,” Secondo added, appearing behind them. “By the way, no one’s going in front. I’m going in front.”

“What?!” Copia and Terzo said in unison.

Secondo was wearing a plain black shirt and black jeans. And the shoes? Surprise! Also black. His dark hair was tied back, too short to be swept or styled, his beard neatly trimmed, with a carefully shaped mustache.

The door slammed again. Primo.

“Oh, you guys already started this crap?”

The eldest calmly closed the front door. He was wearing dark jeans, a light dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and a well-fitted navy blue trench coat. A handkerchief peeked from the chest pocket, and his shoes didn’t match any of his three brothers'—nor should they. Everyone could see the car keys, attached to a huge keychain shaped like Shrek’s head.

“We decided I’m going in front,” Copia said, earning dirty looks from the two older brothers.

“You decided on your own,” Terzo shot back.

“I’m the second oldest,” said Secondo, as if that settled the matter. “And I’m also the only one with a valid driver’s license in case Primo dies suddenly.”

“This isn’t a justification contest,” Terzo retorted. “But if it were, I’d win because I hate feeling your human warmth touching me in the back seat.”

“You said that last week and sat in front just to keep skipping songs after the first chorus, then got bored and skipped again!” Copia accused.

Primo just took a deep breath.

“Shut up, all three of you. Everyone in the back seat. I swear I’ll leave you on the side of the road one day.”

The three of them exchanged looks. Secondo was the first to grumble, but he got in. Copia threatened to be the last one in, so he could get the window seat, but Terzo threatened to yank him out by the hair, and the youngest gave in, huffing and getting in the car, followed by Terzo.

Once they were all seated and buckled—last time they weren’t, there was an incident where Primo had to brake hard and Copia, if not for Terzo grabbing him, would've slammed his face into the front seat—Primo turned the key and turned the radio volume up.

“The next one to open their mouth for no reason is listening to evangelical radio for the rest of their life.”

The drive to the mall was long enough for Terzo to start zoning out, like he always did a few seconds into silence. He watched the lights outside with focus: streetlamps, car headlights, blurred shop windows. He stopped when he started to feel nauseous. Copia was humming softly, and Secondo was staring at himself in the rearview mirror. Primo just drove, occasionally cursing the mothers of other drivers.

“What are we watching again?” Copia finally asked.

“Secondo’s pick,” Primo replied. “We’re watching Deadpool & Wolverine.”

Silence.

Terzo raised his eyebrows.

“Your pick?” he asked, looking at Secondo.

“I need violence. I had a shitty week.”

•

“You seriously have a parking problem, man,” said Copia, his whole head sticking out the car window, checking if his brother was parking inside the lines.

“I can park,” Primo shot back, already moving the car forward and back. “The problem is these lines are all crooked! Who was the son of a bitch that painted this?”

“You never learned how to parallel park, did you?” said Secondo, clearly enjoying the situation. For Secondo to laugh, someone else had to suffer.

“Go fuck yourself, asshole!” Primo snapped, glaring into the rearview mirror and shoving the steering wheel in frustration. With his patience gone, he let go of the wheel and raised his hands to the roof like he was leaving the parking job to God.

“Fuck all of you, I’m not a damn valet!” he added, turning the key and shutting off the car with a dramatic gesture.

“Copia’s good at parking,” Terzo commented.

“I’d rather sell my soul to the devil than hand the wheel of MY car to Copia.”

The youngest feigned offense, letting out a high-pitched “Wow” with his eyes slightly widened as he pushed the car door open with his shoulder. The handle was jamming again. Primo had been pretending he’d fix it for weeks, but truth was, he hated leaving the car at the shop because every time he picked it up, the mechanic would say he’d found something else wrong. Half his paycheck had gone into that heap of junk already.

“Just trying to save you from embarrassing yourself,” Copia muttered as he got out. “But go ahead. When the side of your car gets scratched, remember who tried to warn you.”

Terzo stepped out next, gently closing the door, since he knew Primo hated it when people slammed it—but liked pretending he didn’t care even more. He stretched his legs, his left knee popped, and he adjusted the collar of his oversized coat that looked like it might swallow him whole.

Primo got out last. He slipped the keys into his pocket, the Shrek keychain swinging, gave one last look at the car like a father dropping his kid off at a shady daycare, and started walking ahead without saying a word.

“Boomer’s in a hurry,” Copia muttered behind him. “Probably scared of missing the adult diaper sale.”

“Shut up, Copia,” Primo replied automatically, without thinking. It had become a reflex.

The mall entrance was crowded. A fresh Saturday, but not cold enough to scare off families with kids. People walked by with shopping bags, sneakers, children hanging off their arms, loud laughter—and the worst of all: teenagers. Loud groups of teenagers. Enough to make anyone turn back.

“Are we eating before or after?” Copia asked, already scanning around like he could sniff out McDonald’s fries. He felt like the minority since all three older brothers preferred Burger King. But McDonald’s toys were way cooler.

“We’re watching the movie first, then eating,” said Primo without looking back. For a moment, he sounded like Nihil—and didn’t like it. Not at all.

“I want popcorn, then,” Copia declared, walking closer to Terzo, who had his eyes glued to the escalator, swallowing hard. The dark-haired brother hated escalators—not just because he was scared of losing a toe, but also because he never knew when to step off.

“Buy your own,” said Secondo, pulling his phone out to check the time. “And don’t share with me. That sweet crap you get sticks to my teeth and makes me sick. I had corn stuck on the roof of my mouth for a month.”

“Screw you! You eat it and then act like you didn’t like it! You’ve always done that!”

When they got near the escalator to the second floor, Terzo reflexively grabbed Copia’s arm, watching the steps emerge from the floor and rise in a loop. Not that Copia could actually help with anything—in fact, he was another idiot who didn’t know how to use escalators. Still, Terzo figured it was better to fall with him than fall alone. His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he didn’t take it out. The coat was cozy and he hated interrupting any moment of comfort. Those were rare. He stood beside Copia, who was still bickering with Secondo in a low voice—this time because Copia had poked his brother’s butt from a step below. Secondo grabbed Copia’s index finger and squeezed it, earning a short yelp from the youngest.

“I’m not paying for popcorn if you eat half!” Copia insisted, now with his hands in his jacket pockets and a sore finger.

“Buy two then. No problem,” Secondo shrugged.

While holding Copia's left arm, Terzo also gripped the handrail tightly, not caring if some snot-nosed kid had touched it before, as long as he didn’t tumble down the stairs. Once they reached the top, Primo and Secondo, who were just one step ahead, stepped off onto the second floor at the same time, with such confidence that Terzo felt jealous. Now, he and Copia were on the same step, pressed together beyond comfort.

"Let’s go, we’re almost there," said the youngest, taking a deep breath as he did a sort of warm-up, then linked his arm with his brother’s. "On three. One."

"Two," Terzo followed the count, mentally preparing himself. The step in front seemed to disappear, sliding under the polished white marble floor—this was the threshold.

"Three!" Then Copia and Terzo took a wide, quick step forward onto the floor, victorious as they planted their second foot and left the staircase, propelled by the step beneath them. Terzo stumbled slightly with the second step but masked it with a dramatic adjustment of his coat.

Next to him, Copia let out a loud "Phew," like he’d just done parkour, wiping imaginary sweat from his forehead.

Secondo turned with a raised eyebrow.

"It was just a staircase. It wasn’t going to eat you."

Forgetting he wasn’t an only child, Primo was already walking ahead as if he knew exactly where the movie theater was—which he didn’t. But to seem confident, he walked with his chin up.

The group passed a large arcade, where lights blinked in blue and red, and a little boy was happily landing an orange basketball in one of three hoops—specifically the middle one. The ball circled the glowing rim and went in. Copia almost stopped, seduced by the electronic sounds of a ticket machine spitting out slips toward a red-haired boy, who cheerfully detached the last one from a long line of red tickets and took it for himself.

The youngest of the four, with bright eyes, managed just one step toward the arcade before Secondo grabbed him by the collar of his jacket, pulling him back.

"No. You’ve already wasted enough money on that crap. You can’t even cheat properly!"

"But I’m lucky today!"

"You’ve never been lucky, Copia. Not when you were born, not before. You were supposed to be a triplet, but you ate the other two in the womb."

"That explains a lot," muttered Primo, drawing a quiet chuckle from Terzo behind him.

He had to admit it—Terzo loved bullying Copia. It was always fun to mess with the youngest, though Secondo often took it too far. Sometimes he was cruel, and Terzo could feel the sting Copia tried to hide. There had been a moment when he went to his youngest brother, taking the initiative to tell him he didn’t think Copia was the idiot Secondo made him out to be. “I know it bothered you,” he’d told Copia once, when they were both leaning over the counter. Copia looked away, shy and sad, though trying to hide it with a forced smile. “It hurt a little,” the youngest admitted, and Terzo felt a tightness in his chest out of empathy. Without thinking, he placed his hand over his brother’s and tried to smile reassuringly. “Ignore Secondo. He’s just bitter because he’s the only one of us going bald,” which got a laugh out of Copia, who soon cheered up again.

They walked long enough to realize the path to the right was wrong. They made a full loop before the oldest decided it had to be left.

And again.

Wrong way.

"It’s definitely straight ahead," declared Primo.

"If I go straight and find out the theater was back there—" Secondo began another of his threats.

"Trust me, dude!"

"This is the third time you’ve said that!" whined Terzo from the back, his thighs aching. Copia was next to him, huffing loudly like a bull.

By now, Copia could’ve already earned more than fifty tickets!

"I’m going to piss on you if this is the wrong way," said Secondo, striding forward impatiently.

"Pissing is all you’ve got left anyway," Primo snapped back, not even looking behind as he finally stopped, his attention caught by a sign above. "Look, you animals! It says: CINEMA - 2nd FLOOR."

"We were already on the second floor, you donkey!" Secondo snapped.

"But this is the other side of the second floor!"

Anyone watching would’ve seen the gears turning in the heads of Secondo, Terzo, and Copia as they processed that sentence.

And indeed, as they turned the corner—there it was. The cinema sign, the counter with the smell of popcorn, and the unmistakable movie posters, taller than Terzo, though he wasn’t exactly a height reference.

"Finally," came a collective sigh.

While Primo, taking on his older brother duties, bought the tickets—insisting he didn’t trust his siblings with it—Copia headed to the popcorn line, dragging Terzo along, who simply went with it. At least Copia held his arm, not his wrist. Terzo hated when people grabbed his wrists, and Copia knew that.

In line, Copia leaned his arms on the counter with a sigh, eyes slightly squinted as he thought aloud, liking when Terzo acted as his voice of reason:

"If I get the medium popcorn with soda, I’ll still have enough for a pack of M&M’s… but if I get the large, I can reuse the box later..."

"Copia, for the love of—" Terzo gave up on what he was about to say and sighed, rolling his eyes while crossing his arms, just waiting for his brother to make a decision.

Copia drummed his fingers on the counter, still thinking, brow furrowed and a pout on his thin lips.

Terzo's cheeks burned under the way the female attendant was glaring at them. It was pure hatred. But Copia was oblivious, deep in thought:

"The big one can also become a little bed for my rat… winter is coming, Pepe’s going to get cold."

Terzo just stared at his brother for a full two seconds, then looked at the cashier, whose eyes were now wide open. Honestly, Terzo didn’t blame the girl—he also took a while to get used to that rat at home.

"I’ll take a medium popcorn, a one-liter bottle of Coca-Cola, and a pack of peanut M&M’s," Terzo cut in, swiping his card.

"Hey! I was about to decide!"

"Exactly, you were. Come on, Pepe will sleep nice and warm in the medium popcorn bucket."

Either way, Copia looked excited as he received the medium bucket, almost overflowing with hot buttery popcorn, taking it with exaggerated care while Terzo grabbed the soda and the pack of M&Ms.

"I’m bringing Pepe over to thank you tonight and—"

"If that rat touches me, I’ll fry it in front of you and eat it."

They returned to the group, Copia already stealing popcorn from the bucket before they even entered the theater. He was also feeding Terzo, who was holding the rest of the snacks, placing one or two kernels in his older brother’s mouth.

Coming from the opposite direction, Primo returned with the tickets in hand, already announcing:

"Theater 7. Row E. Sit in ticket order, no fuss."

"You got the middle seats?" asked Terzo, stuffing the M&Ms into one of the pockets of his overcoat to grab his ticket.

"Of course not. I got the edge seats, in case anyone needs to pee."

"You think of everything," commented Copia, handing his ticket to Terzo to hold. He always did that.

"We still have fifteen minutes until the session starts," Primo noted, his rosy lips slightly curled on his long, sculpted face. Terzo had become the model out of the four brothers—he really did have a beautiful face that looked like it had been sculpted by cheerful angels; Nihil liked to say he was inspired the day he made his third son, and that always embarrassed Terzo. However, Primo wasn’t far behind; his hair had a soft silvery-blond hue that framed his sharp cheekbones, aquiline and prominent nose, and mismatched eyes like his brothers—the same emerald green and light blue. He was also the smartest of them, in a kind of attractively intellectual way.

"Where are we going to wait?" asked Copia, his hand already buried in the popcorn bucket, whose contents had mysteriously decreased since Secondo started picking from it too. Copia shot him a nasty look, like saying “I told you so” to Secondo.

Primo just pointed with his chin toward a corner of the cinema entrance, where a thick red ribbon marked the start of the short line. There, a bored employee was tearing tickets with such an automatic motion it looked like he might fall asleep standing.

"There. Lean there and don’t complain," he said, already heading over with his hands in his pockets.

Copia followed him, chewing popcorn, and without thinking twice, dropped to the floor, leaning against the wall like he was on his own couch.

"We’re too rich to be sitting on the floor, get up, man," Secondo grumbled, crossing his arms with disdain. "You look like a homeless."

Primo closed his eyes for a moment, then took his phone out of his pocket and stepped a couple of feet away, putting on the serene expression of a stranger who just happened to be near those three.

Terzo stood, slightly bored, spinning the M&M in his coat pocket when his gaze caught.

He didn’t know how—maybe Terzo could sense it somehow.

Blonde hair tied up in a messy bun, black t-shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing familiar tattoos on those muscular arms, dark jeans and brown boots.

And tall.

Omega laughed with a can of Coke Zero in hand, head slightly thrown back, light-colored eyes squinting from smiling so much, forming creases at the corners. He looked light. Happy. And carefree, just like he did when cooking.

Holy shit.

Terzo felt panic rise from his stomach. Panic? Well, that’s what it felt like—he was trembling, legs weak. His stomach twisted painfully, and a ridiculous heat flushed up his neck. He tried to keep his face neutral, but his pale skin quickly turned red.

He had sworn he was over this, had even mocked himself the month before, calling it a “phase,” a “stupid thing,” a “melodrama.” And now here he was, standing like an idiot at the theater entrance, legs jelly just from seeing Omega laughing with two guys he didn’t know.

"Oh no," Copia muttered beside him, and Terzo could hear the smile forming on his brother’s lips. "Look who it is."

Terzo bit down on his full lower lip, the already pink flesh now red. He knew Copia was staring directly at him, probably with that crooked little smile that always showed up whenever they ran into one of Terzo’s flings. Though this time, it hadn’t even been a fling. Omega was just the chef hired for Terzo’s birthday and had helped him through a meltdown. He had just been kind, offered that gorgeous smile—straight white teeth, light pink lips outlining that smile. He had just made Terzo’s heart race.

Omega saw them.

He lifted his head, eyes scanning the group until they landed on Terzo—or at least it seemed like they did. Terzo hated not knowing if it was all in his head.

But that smile... that damned smile appeared.

And then he waved. Casually. Like he hadn’t spent weeks living rent-free in Terzo’s head. The two guys beside him kept talking, but Omega seemed focused on them. On him.

"We’re fucked," Terzo muttered, running a hand through his hair in an automatic gesture—part nerves, part vanity—but his hands trembled and were sweaty. "Someone tell me if I look desperate."

"Too late," came Secondo’s dry reply, arms crossed.

Omega arrived. Tall, good-smelling—even from two steps away, his scent hit Terzo’s and even Primo’s nose, who murmured approval. Omega seemed like the kind of guy who was carefree because he knew how to do everything: cook, dance, talk, listen, kiss with passion, and even screw with force. Not that Terzo had imagined that in detail. Just some scattered thoughts. Nothing serious.

He stopped in front of them, kind of chuckling, that free laugh that made dimples appear. Suddenly, Terzo found himself almost smiling back. Almost. But he held it in.

"Well, look who’s here," said the tall man, eyes sweeping across the group but lingering half a second longer on Terzo—and staying there. What a handsome man.

"What are you guys going to see?"

"The new Deadpool movie," Copia jumped in, sensing Terzo frozen like the iceberg that sank the Titanic. "You seeing it too?"

"Already did, at the premiere," Omega replied, turning slightly to gesture at the two guys beside him, as if just now remembering them. "Brought these two today. That’s Aether, that’s Alpha."

Terzo gave a polite nod but didn’t bother remembering who was who. Who cares. He was too busy trying to control his own breathing. He had to yawn, chest trembling a bit as he forced air into his lungs. It didn’t work that well, but the little air he got was good enough.

"And you, Terzo, how’ve you been?" Omega asked, with that tone between casual and intimate. It wasn’t the kind of question asked out of politeness. There was memory there. A hint of something. Their conversation in the kitchen that night. Happy birthday, Terzo.

God, just remembering Omega’s husky voice saying that made the hairs on Terzo’s neck stand up.

"Good," he replied, too quickly. "You disappeared after the party."

"I thought you had my number," said the Omega with a mischievous smirk.

Copia let out an "ooohhh" sound in the background and got a light smack from Secondo, who muttered, "shut the fuck up."

Terzo just gave a half-smile. He wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction.

"I did. Lost my phone," he lied. He still had the number. And the entire history of their last conversation. Read at 3 a.m. Never replied.

Omega laughed again, and Terzo didn’t know if he hated or loved that sound.

"Well, we're going for a walk. These two haven’t decided what to eat during the movie yet. But if you want some company after the film..." He shrugged, already turning away, not needing to finish the sentence.

Terzo stood there. Frozen. The jealousy didn’t hit like an explosion. It came as warmth in his ears. That feeling of wanting to be in different clothes, in a different place, being someone else. Maybe Alpha—that bastard who had said something too close to Omega and made him laugh, a soft, sweet laugh right after.

"I like Omega. He seems to know he's hot," said Primo thoughtfully. "That annoys me and attracts me. I hate when that happens."

Terzo said nothing.

He just felt, deep down, that the most childish part of him was fuming with rage for not knowing if Omega was now seeing that Alpha or if they were just friends. And worse: he couldn’t ask.

Because they were nothing—he and Omega. Never had been.

But holy shit, how it bothered him.

And to make things worse, the movie theater felt like a freezer—colder than outside, even though it was supposed to be a stuffy room. Copia started complaining about the cold before even finding his seat, clutching the popcorn bucket.

Secondo took the seat at the end and threw his feet onto the chair in front of him without a care, like he’d paid double for it. Terzo ended up in the middle, squeezed between Primo and Copia, but his mind was elsewhere—still in the line... or more precisely, still on that particular smile. Fuck.

The lights dimmed and the trailers began. Copia whispered things like, "we're coming back to see that one too, right?" glancing hopefully between Primo and Terzo, who was trying to focus on the screen in front of him, but all his attention was stuck on the way Omega had looked at him... or at least seemed to have. How could a movie screen not be big enough to block out the space Omega’s smile took up in Terzo’s eyes and mind? Damn it!

Omega was out there. With two handsome guys. One looked like he’d stepped out of a Calvin Klein editorial, and the other looked like the type who remembered the waiter’s name and tipped well. And he was hot too!

Not that Terzo didn’t measure up. He didn’t like to brag, but his more than three million Instagram followers and his face on magazine covers weren’t thanks to Nihil’s money.

Terzo kept fiddling with his hair. Constantly. Ran his hand through the silky dark strands, adjusted his collar, glanced at his reflection in his phone’s black screen. Nothing helped. He felt like he looked tired. And dumb. For caring this much.

"Son of a bitch," Terzo thought, biting the knuckle of his index finger.

In the middle of the movie, Terzo stood up. He murmured that he was going to the bathroom, but he just wanted to get out of there. The heat that Omega had left in his mind was making everything feel claustrophobic. He left the room, leaned against the wall in the hallway that led to the restrooms, and stayed there, still, staring at the floor as if it were going to answer something.

That’s when he realized how fucked he was when he heard:

"Hey."

The voice came softly right behind him. Something in Terzo reacted. He turned slowly.

It was Omega. Alone.

"You left right in the best part", he said, already leaning against the wall next to him, as if that were the most natural place in the world to be, but leaving a considerable space to respect the younger man’s limit, noticing how tense he seemed. "Chris Evans showed up."

Terzo let out a soft laugh through his nose. Fuck Chris Evans, he thought. Look at this. Look at this man in front of me.

"I needed to breathe a little air that doesn’t smell like virgin nerd sweat."

Omega laughed. That laugh of his. Light, almost audacious in its tranquility:

"Your brothers seemed friendlier today."

"And this is the best day you’ll catch them. You can consider yourself lucky ", Terzo replied with a crooked smile. " And you? Your... friends? Or was that other guy your boyfriend?"

Omega raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth pulling into a smile. So that’s it.

"Alpha? No. He’s just my best friend. We have a garage band. It’s awful."

Terzo almost let slip a "I didn’t ask what you guys do," but held his tongue. Better to stay quiet than to seem affected.

"And you? Are you alone?"

Terzo looked at Omega. Then at the floor. Then back at Omega. "I’m not with anyone, if that’s what you’re asking."

Silence.

Omega nodded slowly, his eyes steady on Terzo. He wasn’t smiling now, as if trying to figure out what to do with that information.

Terzo felt his heart race and hated it. He hated even more the fact that he was aware of his own body, his posture, his breathing, even the shit that was his hair today. He hadn’t used conditioner, just shampoo.

"I thought you were avoiding me", Omega said, finally, calmly. No accusation in his voice, just sharing something.

Terzo bit the corner of his lip. Laughed, briefly. "I was."

"Why?"

He didn’t answer right away. He looked at the ceiling, as if there was some good excuse written there. But there wasn’t.

"Because..." he started, his voice lower. " I thought it was just in my head. That I had fooled myself."

Omega leaned his neck against the wall, closing his eyes for a second. When he opened them, his expression was softer. "You didn’t fool yourself."

That hit Terzo like a punch without violence. He swallowed hard, trying to hold back whatever was rising in his throat. Nervousness? Relief? A desire to kiss someone in the middle of the cinema hallway? Or an uncontrollable urge to fuck him?

"And now?", he asked, even softer. "What do we do?"

Omega tilted his head slightly, still with that subtle smile on his lips.

"Now...", he began, taking a step closer. "We stop pretending we don’t want it."

Terzo felt his spine freeze and his body heat up at the same time. The air seemed thicker, the hallway narrower. The Omega was right there, so close that Terzo could see the shadow of his eyelashes on his face, the almost insolent glint in his eyes. Suddenly, he wasn’t just the handsome, friendly chef. He was the guy Terzo wanted to have in bed, to grab his ass and make him scream, filling him with slaps.

Omega stepped even closer, so close that Terzo felt the heat of his body against his. There was no more space for doubt.

"If you want to send me away, now’s the time", he said, his voice low, husky as he whispered only to Terzo.

Terzo didn’t say anything. His mind was short-circuiting.

Result?

Terzo yanked Omega by the shirt and kissed him desperately, almost as if his heart were about to rise to his throat, fearing that Omega would feel it.

It was immediate, the taller one held Terzo’s thin, delicate waist, massaging the curves with his slightly rough thumbs, pulling him closer until Terzo’s smaller body was practically swallowed by the bigger, muscular one.

Omega’s fingers slid up Terzo’s back, under his shirt, the skin prickling with the direct, hot, firm touch, so good it made Terzo angry. He groaned quietly against his mouth, and the sound seemed to ignite something in the other, who deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding with hunger, not asking for permission.

Terzo grabbed his neck, fingers buried in the blonde hair, his body pressed against his, as if he wanted to penetrate his skin and hide inside. It was too good. Too intense. A whole month telling himself he had gotten over it... and now he was there, glued like a teenager, even though he was nineteen, feeling his legs almost fail.

When they pulled apart, it was just enough to breathe, and even then, barely.

"We’re in the cinema hallway", Terzo murmured, his mouth more swollen, but he had to cling to the taller man to keep from floating away, so light and happy he felt, unable to disguise it.

"I noticed", Omega replied, his forehead resting against his, his hand still firmly on his waist, as if he wasn’t letting go anytime soon. " But you kissed me. You’ll have to deal with the consequences."

Terzo laughed softly, almost out of breath. "What kind of consequences?"

"The kind that involves...", he brushed his lips on his cheek, down to his ear " Me taking you home after. Or to anywhere I can take off that ridiculous turtleneck shirt."

"This shirt is stylish, fuck you!"

"I’m going to fuck you."

Terzo bit his lip, laughed again, and for a second, everything felt even lighter. Hotter.

"Okay" he said, taking a deep breath. " But give me five minutes. I need to go back and pretend I was just peeing."

"Go ahead", Omega replied, releasing him slowly. " But don’t take too long. I’m already missing your mouth."

Terzo walked away without looking back. And even then, he was smiling. He felt like skipping, but his legs were so wobbly that he would definitely fall.

•

Terzo returned to the movie theater with wobbly legs, as if he were learning how to walk again. Nothing suspicious, of course. He entered slowly, trying to appear casual, as though he had just gone to wash his face—not been pressed against a wall by a delicious giant who seemed to have stepped out of a sexy dream. The problem was his hair, all messy, and his face, hot and red, lips swollen as if he'd had fillers, more noticeable than a flashing ambulance light. Not subtle.

Copia was the first to notice. He always was. "You go mount the toilet before using it or what?"

Secondo didn’t even need to look. He just raised an eyebrow in that annoying way that made it seem like he understood everything, even though Terzo hadn’t said a word. It was like he could smell the Omega’s perfume on him, and he scrunched his nose. Across from him, Primo pretended not to have noticed anything, but Terzo saw the sideways glance. Disguised, yes. Curious. Judging, too.

Terzo sank into the seat between them and, without saying a word, grabbed a handful of popcorn from Copia’s bucket, stuffing it all into his mouth at once. He chewed eagerly, as if trying to occupy his mouth to keep from laughing like an idiot. His chest felt too light, and his mouth insisted on smiling by itself. He was floating, like a balloon released, about to fly away. Damn giant.

He didn’t even remember what movie they were watching.

He still felt Omega’s fingers on his skin, his waist still tingling, his breath on his neck, the warm taste of his mouth against his, and the absurd desire to repeat everything, anywhere there was a bed, a couch, or any surface that could handle Omega pushing Terzo down hard. The list was long.

Actually, standing up worked. Screw it.

He jumped when Copia leaned in and whispered in his ear: "He kissed you, huh?"

Without taking his eyes off the screen, Terzo replied: "If I tell you, promise you won’t make a scene?"

"I promise."

Terzo exhaled, defeated: "We kissed. In the hallway. It was like... surreal."

Copia reacted with an overly excited "UHHH," tapping his arm and swinging his legs like one of those hyperactive kids on a swing. It was obvious this would happen; Terzo knew the youngest well. Copia was a ball of energy and couldn’t disguise it when he was on high voltage.

Secondo, at the end, clicked his tongue, still not taking his eyes off the screen: "You guys are pathetic, I thought you’d already fucked at your birthday party, yet you didn’t even kiss."

Terzo smiled. He tried to hold it in, but failed miserably. It was that silly little smile that escapes when your chest is too light and the world seems good for five minutes. Because, no matter how silly it seemed, he wanted more of that. Much more. For a moment, Terzo lived what life was, he felt alive and he felt good.

When the lights came on and the credits started to roll, Terzo was still in la-la land. He got up with his brothers, walking on autopilot, until reality yanked him back: near the exit, there was Omega. Leaning against the wall, with that smile that made Terzo’s legs go even weaker. Aether and Alpha were with him, laughing. Always laughing. Sometimes Terzo felt like it was about him, but he just shook off that paranoia.

But as soon as Omega saw Terzo, he straightened up, smoothing out the fabric of his shirt, which stretched across his defined chest. Crossing his strong arms, he approached casually, like he wasn’t even trying.

"Hey. Want a ride?"

Terzo stopped. His heart stumbled in his chest. He was going to reply, but didn’t even get the chance. Secondo answered for him, bluntly, but that wasn’t a surprise:

"He’s coming with us. From home."

Omega didn’t even blink.

"It’s just that he’s not going back to his place."

Silence. Just one sentence, and it felt like Omega had slapped everyone in the face with a slice of ham.

With that, Secondo sighed, exhausted: "Wonderful."

Terzo tried to hold back the silly smile that was forming, but failed miserably. He looked at Omega, who just extended his hand. Naturally. His wide palm was inviting.

He took it. Timidly. But he took it. His smaller hand fitting perfectly in his.

And they walked out. Without looking back for a moment.

" They’re gonna fuck, right? ", Copia said loudly, without shame, staring at the couple and the duo next to them.

" If they don’t, I’ll lose faith in Terzo", Secondo responded " What’s the point of going out with a guy like that and not sweating a little?"

[helenofsparta2]

kind of related to your post about zoe just now but: what do you think of the hunters in general? I've got a lot of thoughts on them myself.. most of them not that positive lmao lots of "could have been good, but very poor execution" and "sounds cool on the surface, but very questionable when thought about more"

First of all, thank you for the question :)))

Oh god, this might become a slightly longer post, because I have a lot to say about the hunters of Artemis.

From what you’ve written, it sounds like we might have a very similar opinion. I personally think they are one of the worst-written parts of the original Percy Jackson books. I love their idea, I love their basic concept, but their execution was pretty atrocious.

There are four main points regarding them that I want to talk about.

The portrayal of Artemis (though this one is by far not as bad as the others)

2. The behaviour of the huntresses

3. Bianca

4. Lacking Development

Artemis

Now, I know that the gods and goddesses of the Riordan verse, are sanitized caricatures, and shouldn’t be compared to their actual myth versions. I think everyone in this fandom has at least heard some well-founded criticisms regarding the portrayal of Ares, Athena, Aphrodite, Apollo or any of the other gods.  

I even understand why Rick Riordan made most of the decisions that he did. Obviously, the gods had to be sanitized for a book series primarily aimed at children, and, to be fair to him, even if their characterizations are a far-cry from their myths and sometimes overly stereotypical (Aphrodite), they are fulfilling the roles they have in this story as deeply flawed, but powerful individuals, because of whose careless mistakes and pride demigods, and other ‘lesser’ beings have to suffer.  

And I actually do not hate Artemis’ portrayal that much, if we exclude the behavior of her hunt, and the initiation of Bianca. Her taking Annabeth’s place in holding the sky and her loudly arguing against killing Percy and Thalia at the winter solstice was a great portrayal of her being a patron goddess of children, and the idea of including the hunters of Artemis as a group of girls, both from mortal and immortal parents, who have been hurt by the world, and found a safe place with one another is actually really great. Generally, whenever she appears in the books, I have the feeling she is handled with far more graze and respect than a lot of other godly beings.  

However, as someone who very much loves Greek mythology, I just want to point out some small parts, which are not entirely accurate, though, again,  I understand Rick’s reason for omitting them in the context of what he wanted to do with her character and the hunt , and I acknowledge that even in ancient times, there existed a variety of different interpretations of the gods.

(Please note, that while I read original sources like the works of Diodor, Apollodorus, Hesiod, and Euripides, I am not a classicist, and that my knowledge of the greek gods primarily stems from personal research and my own interest. If anyone knows more about Artemis, please feel free to correct me if necessary)  

While Artemis is primarily the goddess of the hunt, and in later interpretations of the moon, she is not only the protector of girls, but the patron goddess of children in general and a goddess closely linked to childbirth.

Yes, she expects her followers to remain chaste, but to say that she is completely against men would be a grave mistake. Male followers of Artemis did exist in mythology, most famously Orion, who later became a constellation, and Hippolytus, the son of Theseus and the Amazon Hippolyta.

So, her cold behavior towards Nico and her degrading words towards boys in general is an attribute primarily added by Rick Riordan.

Though, like I said, I understand making certain changes to gods and goddesses, or rather choosing different interpretations of them to have them fulfill a certain role in a book series, so Artemis portrayal itself doesn’t bother me that much.

But if we’re talking about the hunters themselves, things easily take a turn for the worse.  

The behavior of the hunters

Now, I understand the hunters point in the story.

A huge theme of Titan’s curse is to explore the difference between old ideals of what heroism entails and the modern take on it, represented through Theseus and Herakles on one side, and Percy on the other. The hunters, and especially Zöe, represent a group, who have suffered through the actions of those old, primarily male heroes, and have developed a strong bias against all boys and men as a result. A bias, Percy is supposed to break in this book.

This, in itself, is a pretty awesome concept. But, like I said, the execution mostly failed.

Most of the Hunters of Artemis in Titan’s curse were written without any nuance, without development and without any sense of self reflection.

To express it plainly, they completely suck. And that hurts to say, especially as someone who is asexual-sex-repulsed and aromantic, because, like I said, they could have been an absolutely amazing part of the overarching story and theme of the book series, but with the way Rick Riordan wrote them, they suck. They’re insufferable.  They’re a group of immortal teenagers with a superiority complex, who act the way right-wing republicans and trump supporters think feminists act like.

They’re completely antagonistic towards the campers at camp half-blood for absolutely no good reason, act really childish and immature, and their overwhelming bias against every male character, especially Percy and Nico, is just plain annoying and goes to a point, where it makes them act like absolute idiots and assholes.

Zöe’s behavior at the meeting to decide who should go on the quest to save Artemis is a pretty good representation of everything I dislike about the hunters.  

She doesn’t want to take campers with her on the quest, even though the oracle plainly stated that them working together was the only way for them to succeed:

“You’re missing something as usual,” Thalia said. “Campers and Hunters combined prevail. We’re supposed to do this together.”

“No!”, Zoe said. “The Hunters do not need thy help.”

Immediately afterwards, she makes fun of Silena Beauregard (who is around 14 or 15 at the time, might I add.):

“Percy is right,” Silena Beauregard said. “Two campers should go.”

“Oh, I see,” Zoe said sarcastically. “And I suppose you wish to volunteer?”

Silena blushed. “I’m not going anywhere with the hunters. Don’t look at me!”

“A daughter of Aphrodite does not wish to be looked at,” Zoe scoffed. “What would thy mother say?”

And then, she decisively refuses Percy’s help for the quest, even though he is objectively the best person for the job. I really can’t reiterate enough that Percy is the most accomplished hero present at that meeting. He has successfully led two quests, one to stop a civil war between the gods, the second to recover the golden fleece. Even in comparison to Thalia, Percy is more accomplished and has gained more respect within the mythological world.

As I walked back through the city of the gods, conversations stopped. The muses paused their concert. People and satyrs and naiads all turned towards me, their faces filled with respect and gratitude, and as I passed, they knelt, as if I were some kind of hero. (The lightning thief)

Yet Zoe refuses his help to save the goddess she serves and increases so the risk of failure, simply because he is a boy.

“Oh,” Grover said, suddenly aware of the problem. “Whoa, yeah. I forgot! Percy has to go. I didn’t mean… I’ll stay. Percy should go in my place.”

“He cannot,” Zoe said. “He’s a boy. I won’t have Hunters travelling with a boy.”

Another huge problem in their characterization is their immortality. Here I want to focus again on their ongoing beef with camp half-blood, because, yes, while the campers also act pretty antagonistic in return, I think it’s important to note that most kids at camp half blood are between the ages of 10 and I’d say maybe 17 years old, while the huntresses are immortal.

Now, it’s obviously possible that most of them are still teenagers and haven’t been part of the hunt for that long, but considering the fact that Zoe is over 3000 years old, and could very well be older than most Olympians, the chance of most hunters being older than at least 30, is pretty high, which makes their behavior seem even more ridiculous.

And obviously the whole situation with Bianca paints the hunters in the worst light possible.

Bianca

There are already some pretty good and detailed posts on tumblr regarding the subject of Bianca and the hunters, so I don’t want to dig into this subject too deeply, because this post is already way too long, but you can’t possibly write about the hunters without mentioning her.

The hunters, especially Zoe and Artemis convinced Bianca to join them in a moment of huge distress. Bianca was a twelve-year-old, vulnerable girl, who just found out she was a demigod, almost got kidnapped by the manticore, and watched a girl fall down a cliff, yet they expect her to swear allegiance to them after only a couple of minutes of knowing them.

They paint her this beautiful picture of having no responsibility and a new family, telling her exactly, what she wanted to hear without giving her even a moment to breathe or give her time to talk to her brother or fully think this through.

I want to point out that at this point in time, Artemis had already decided that she needed to go after the monster alone, and knew, that her hunters would spend some time at camp half-blood. But instead of giving Bianca these couple days/ weeks to accept this new reality of the mythological world and get to know both camp half-blood and the hunters, she wants an answer at this very moment,

Yes, Bianca’s answer was rash, and yes, I do think it’s rather cold that she didn’t first talk to Nico about it, but it’s pretty plain to see that she was overwhelmed and pretty much manipulated during this entire conversation.

Later, Zoe decides to take her with her on the quest, even though Bianca is completely unprepared for it. She is probably, aside from Nico, the most unprepared person in the entirety of camp half-blood to go on a quest.  

I don’t think I have to explain how terrible of a decision that was.

The hunters are objectively the worst thing that could have ever happened to Bianca and the main reason why she died.

Lacking Development:

Now, all of this, every single flaw I just pointed out, could have actually worked out, if there would have been some sort of change in the hunters’ way of thinking and an acknowledgement that their opinions on boys and males in general are misguided and lead to more harm than good during the course of the books.

Especially after their actions led to Bianca’s death.

Them seeing how much love Nico had for his sister and how much he suffered from her death could have been a great moment for some character development.

But nothing happened.

Camp half blood and the hunters grieving together at the end of Titan’s curse for both Zoe and Bianca could have resulted in a genuine moment of friendship between the two groups, leading to understanding and change.  

But nothing happened.

The only person who took responsibility for Bianca’s death at the end of Titan’s curse was fourteen-year-old Percy. The only person who cared enough about Nico to search for him and make sure he was safe, was Percy. The hunters didn’t care at all. Took no responsibility whatsoever.

All that happened at the end of that book was that Thalia became a huntress, and that Zoe and Artemis acknowledged Percy as a hero.

This, while admittedly, a great moment for Percy’s characterization and also somewhat for the character development of Zoe, had very little effect otherwise.  

Because, in the end, Zoe and Artemis treated Percy as if he was the exception. As if they had been only wrong about him, and not boys in general. They didn’t revisit their line of thinking, they didn’t self-reflect and they didn’t acknowledge that their bias was utterly flawed, and that they should treat male demigods generally better.

She (Zöe) grasped it contently. “You spoke the truth, Percy Jackson. You are nothing like… like Hercules. I am honored that you carry this sword.”

Then, she (Artemis) turned to me. “You did well,” she said. “For a man.”

Percy Jackson is fundamentally a story about the circle of abuse, and, Percy specifically, breaking that circle, but nothing of note happened with the hunters.

Because even if Zoe had confronted her own bias, (and there is admittedly an argument to be made that she did) she would have been the only hunter to do so. And she died.

Thalia becoming the lieutenant of the hunters as someone who is best friends with Percy and Grover, and who misses Jason more than anything, could have confronted this distorted line of thinking, but the other hunters remain pretty much unchanged in the last Olympian and The Lost Hero.

There were hugs and greetings al around- or at least Thalia was friendly. The other hunters didn’t like being around campers, especially boys, but they didn’t shoot any of us, which for them was a pretty warm welcome. (The last Olympian, chapter 10)

“Oh, no way,” Leo said. “We’ve been sitting in a cave and you get a luxury tent? Somebody give me hypothermia. I want hot chocolate and a parka!”

Phoebe sniffed. “Boys,” she said, like it was the worst insult she could think of. (XXXVI Leo, the lost hero.)

Conclusion:

So, yeah. They had huge potential, both as individual characters and as part of the overarching plot and theme of Percy Jackson, but their execution was absolutely abysmal.

The only possible positive thing I could say about them is that they are at least better than the Amazons (though that is not particularly hard)

I hope my rambling was understandable, it's already pretty late:')

[antiphilosophia]

Crowley's pre-fall name is BARAQIEL (THEORY)

THIS POST MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS OR RATHER CLUES FOR GOOD OMENS SEASON 2 CONTENTS, PROCEED WITH CAUTION 🤍

Very well. Who doesn't love the Crowley is the Archangel Raphael theory (I am certainly of those people who do). During my first watch of Good Omens S2 I was even somehow almost confident that that was the case.

However, my second, more careful, viewing of this lovely (but equally heartbreaking) season made me change my mind, likely for good. In episode 4, Furfur's book "Demon's Guide To Angelic Beings Who Walk The Earth" shows us a name of a certain angel Baraqiel. (see photo below) Knowing Good Omens that can hardly be a coincidence.

Unfortunately, the very text is quite unreadable. One thing, other than the name, which is pretty clear is the subheading "Angel of the Sky" and since the episode 1 lets us take a look at how Crowley did indeed take part in creation of what is to be seen in the night sky, one can hardly find that entirely non-fitting. One other sentence I was (at least I think) able to read is "Often draped in red."

(On a different note but certainly worth noticing are scribbles that generally just roast Crowley – his suspiciousness, hair and name (though I am not absolutely sure of the latter) "His hair is bad!" Wow, Furfur really does hate Crowley.)

Then there is something written above the name of Baraqiel, unfortunately in none of the picture frames does it get a bit readable. I wonder though, couldn't it be "former"? Since it comes precisely after mention of Crowley to whom should one report on Aziraphale.

Crowley is very powerful. Dominion

A word that is not exactly readable but can be deduced from its placement (it is situated just as Aziraphale's "Principality") is Baraqiel's rank – Dominion Angel. It should be noted here that I very much lack proper knowledge of either Jewish or Christian mythology and I would hate to provide any incorrect claims. I therefore think it is better for me not to overly state things, even more so since everyone can look into it on their own and figure out what that might mean for our beloved demon. What I will say, however, is that they are (as I understand it) very powerful and, placed within the 2nd triad in the angel hierarchy, ranked higher than the Archangels. This would go well along with the emphasis that was in my opinion laid on Crowley's powers quite a lot this season.

For example: "A miracle of enormous power happened last night. The kind of miracle only the mightiest of archangels could've performed," said Shax to Crowley, to which he replied: "How'd you know I didn't do it?" He didn't get an answer.

What I think (and I may be very wrong, obviously) is that a miracle of this vastness wouldn't have happened simply because of a regular angel and a regular demon did together half a miracle each. What is also worth noticing is that the tool with which Crowley created the Nebula is the same as the one he used to temporarily stop time at the end of season 1 right before Satan's arrival. So much to the size of his powers.

Baraqiel, lightning of God. Fallen angel

Finally, to Baraqiel himself. My lack of knowledge concerning this matter still stands and frankly I don't even know where to find valid information about angels and such on the internet. Baraqiel should, however, stand for "lightning of God" and is also regarded as the angel of lightning. In season 2 there are (as far as I remember) two occasions where Crowley is put in correlation with lightning. (1) His poor anger management issues in episode 1 and (2) his not at all better matchmaking in episode 3 ("I haven't done weather in ages"). Furthermore, Baraqiel is considered to be the one who taught astrology to people. Nevertheless, what points to Crowley and Baraqiel being one even more is that Baraqiel is indeed a fallen angel.

•

So... That is probably it. I usually tent to theorize about stuff in quiet, in fact, this is the first time I've used Tumblr for anything other than reading Neil Gaiman's posts. I didn't even think that I would actually post it but then I've searched on Twitter, TikTok and here on Tumblr if anyone else has already come up with this theory. The only post I could find (hopefully I haven't missed anything) was by @valaza_04 on Twitter (click here) where they refer to the same frame shot as I do here.

Now I know, we are still recovering from heartbreaking (but if you ask me, absolutely amazing) finale and the main thing currently on our minds is figuring out why would Aziraphale choose as he did and the many wonderful theories that come with it. However, considering the utterly virulent look that Metatron shot at Crowley before walking out of the bookshop with Aziraphale and also his "Well, [Crowley] always did want to go his own way. Always asking damn fool questions, too." makes me think that he absolutely does not care for Crowley and whichever angel he was before the Fall. And I reckon it won't remain unnoticed in season 3 and might even be really important (or that is just me wishing for more pre-fall Crowley scenes). Hence I decided that I will post this. And it doesn't matter if no one will see this in the end, it was quite fun to write. However, if there is someone who will read this all the way through, I hope they will accept my apology for the mistakes I have most possibly made (English is not my first language) and also for the ridiculous length this post has come to gather. It turns out, I am just as chatty of a writer as I am speaker.

Well maybe I will come around to write one more post about this theory, only with a proper research this time. Till then thank you and, please, support this season by streaming as much as you can so we can have season 3 of this masterpiece of a show. And be kind to those bringing it to us in your comments regarding the ending, even though it is very frustrating and heart-shattering, it is also maybe the best ending we could have hoped for with the prospects of season 3.

Thank you for letting me talk my heart out, Tumblr.

[igotanidea]

Dating Sam Winchester headcanons.

Requested: I was wondering if you could write something supernatural with Sam Winchester, what kind of boyfriend would Sam be? Thank you anon, made that as expanded headcanons starting from meeting and going further in the relationship.

A little NSFW in point 16.

***

1.Bookshops dates

I mean come on, all things considered I am pretty sure you would meet him in the library rather than any place else. And even if you weren’t actually reaching for mythological monsters encyclopaedia or the yearbook of the city from 1456, you were bound to meet at the counter. It wasn’t that big bookshop after all and Sam, with his tall, muscular silhouette was definitely filling most of the space, forcing you to sneak under his arm to get what you were aiming for. Not that you complained, cause he does smell good.

2. Soul longing – as silly as that may sound. Ok listen up. He had women, that’s for sure. But one night stands is only good for so long. And unlike Dean he needed stability from the beginning. Sam is not a player nor a playboy. And as for you? You’re not just gonna jump into the bed of a very handsome, tall and broad shouldered man you met briefly while buying a book, right?

Even if you can imagine so many things he could do with those hands….

Even if you can tell just by looking at him that he’s got enough experience and skills to keep you up all night and –

“Miss? Miss are you all right?”

Damn, seem like you just spaced out in front of the guy who’s been currently eyeing you with those deep eyes piercing right into your soul.

Impossible to forget and even more impossible to let go.

3. Cliché scenario – you actually became a part of team free will after getting into a demon related accident serving the part of a lady in distress perfectly. Got hurt so bad the boys Sam felt guilty enough to look for you for a couple weeks while getting too attached.

4. Obviously wanting to keep you out of the family business. Too bad he got himself a persistent badass, who refused to sit cases out. You may not be a hunter, but you’re a girl. And who’s better than a woman when it comes to making scenes and getting man to mansplain to the poor, innocent soul that knows nothing? The first time you faked cried he fell for it all the way and never questioned your skills again.

5. Probably making you get an anti-possession tattoo. Just for safety, of course. And holding your hand all time while getting it done, caressing your palm in that special reassuring way. And then kissing it better after, regardless of the place it was inked on.  

6. Funny thing he was hesitant to put a tag on your relationship. At first. Can’t blame him given all that happened to his mother and Jess. But his emotional side finally took over and he blurted something in the middle of an argument.

“You’re staying here tonight.”

“The hell I am, Sam.”

“I’m not asking.”

‘You’re not my boss.”

“Well I am your boyfriend!”

“Did you just-? Sam? Sam, did you just - ?”

You never got to finish that sentence. And just that one time you stayed behind.

Behind being on the backseat, no further.

7. Bantering over silly stuff while making Dean crazy, cause since you two got together there’s no one to bring him pie.  

8. Knowledge duels – as long as you pick the theme, cause no way you’re going against him in history or demonology.  It is however possible to beat him in popculture or modern cinematography.

“How am I supposed to know all those –“

“Educate yourself Sammy.”

“Oh I will educate you on something –“

9. Merciless teasing from Dean about stuff that should not ever be his business.

“Hey, whose underwear is that?”

“Brought you two some protection.”

“Hey maybe we can get a threesome?”

“Is that a hickey on your neck Y/N? God, girl, you are loud.”

(but we all know that’s the way Dean’s inner soft side is showing)

10. Doing research while laying head on his chest, tracing patterns on his skin. (making him distracted and locked up in another room until you start to behave.)

11. Doing research in the various libraries. You have no idea but he raises his gaze from the book way too often to actually comprehend any of the text. The way you are frowning, scrunching your nose and the way your eyes shine every time you come upon a clue or a helpful fact seem to be more interesting.

12. Fights – oh, damn, it was bound to happen right?

Arguing with Sam is impossible. He always keeps his cool, not letting the blood boil no matter how many needles you gives him. Sometimes it feels like he’s wearing that stupid armour turning into stone just to infuriate you.

But not for long, cause Sammy can’t stand to see you hurt or broken. That’s not him. It doesn’t matter if you started the fight (you’re being reckless, you’re gonna get killed, you need some rest) or he was the part to initiate it (you’re not the hunter, I know better, I’ll handle it) he’ll be all up for communication. Talking through.

Being a Winchester comes with toughness and roughness sometimes, but Sam doesn’t deny having feelings he want to work on. With you.

It’s not a perfect relationship but you’re patching it up with all the best and most resistant fabric.

13. Subtle hand holding while driving on a hunt. You may be in the backseat while both brothers take the front ones, but who cares. The blank between the driver and shotgun is for something, right? And who cares about the gearbox?

14. Forehead kisses and cuddling – you have actually seen Sam right? If that’s not a giant teddy bear than I don’t know who is. Definition of safety and warmth. Just imagine nuzzling into him with those strong arms around you keeping you safe from any demon, angel, witch, wendigo, shapeshifter or whatever else monster might come for you.

15. Steamy make out session in the impala just to get some privacy. Honestly I believe at some point this would be used as a threat for alone time.

"Get out Dean.”

“ Mmm. Nope. Not happening. I got stuff to do here.”

“I said get out.”

“Make me.”

“Well I think you should go and check on your car before I take care of the backseat.”

Wide eyes, rushing out and not getting back for hours.

Mission completed.

16. Getting intimate with Sam is indescribable. You don’t even need words and yet he seems to understand everything your body tries to convey. Soft, slow, sensual and tender love making while looking into your eyes, refusing to let your gaze drop? Tracing your body and kissing all over your soft skin? Making you feel fragile, small and delicate no matter your size?

All done.

I see Sam as a soft dom. He could break your boundaries easily and probably would, but never to the point of hurting you.

Rough play, BDSM, kinks, making love on any flat surface possible? Not exactly his style.

Stretching you out, wrapping your legs around his waist, pressing you into the mattress, marking you? Absolutely.

He’s fine with pleasuring you, getting to know what turns you on (hitting and finding all the sensitive spots that makes you mewl and rake nails down his body), never failing to make you see stars.

He may not be talking too much and not use a lot of dirty talk, but hey, a few thrusts, a few flicks of his tongue, his muscles flexing under your fingersand the feel of him so freaking deep and you forget something such as words exist.

17. Getting just the right amount of aftercare cuddles, kisses and hugs. Duties are calling and Sam may be a bit of a workaholic, but you’re on top of the “to-do-list.” Taking just the right amount of time to help you get back to reality, getting your floating soul back into your thoroughly loved out body by caresses, kisses, touches, strokes. Whatever you need.

He loves you.

[thebellekeys]

My 2024 bookish predictions:

The Dragon Renaissance - With more Fourth Wing sequels in the works and season 2 of HOTD coming out in the summer, I think there's a good chance dragons and dragon-shifters could become the next big thing. Maybe they'll replace the fae as the "big" fictional creature?

The Percy Jackson Renaissance - It will be in full swing, accompanied by a noticeable Greek Mythology Renaissance among locals on Twitter whose knowledge of Greek Mythology is limited to... Percy Jackson. The Hunger Games renaissance will see its last days in January/February or so.

(Poorly written) military fantasy will become popular. Again, I think this will be an unwanted side effect of Fourth Wing's popularity. But I think the Gaza Genocide and institutions endorsing Zionism will play into this as well. I thinks we're about to see a lot of military propaganda in the book world and military-themed books trending.

Dark academia will enter into the beginning stages of its flop era. I say this as someone whose blog is largely dedicated to dark academia, but with Kuang not publishing anything in 2024, with Olivie Blake's Atlas trilogy coming to an end, and ST Gibson's An Education In Malice being... not that good, I can see people moving away from dark academia by the end of the year.

Colleen Hoover will release something. I don't particularly care for this, but I can easily see it happening. She didn't release anything this year so it makes sense she may have a 2024 release (and maybe one designed to improve her reputation).

The ACOTAR series adaptation will get chopped (officially, that is).

People will become less open about enjoying smut and dark romance with all the Twitter radfem discourse and backlash against poor quality romance ruling publishing. There will also be more "discreet" book covers. There will be a lot of anti-erotica discourse.

The Nobel Prize winner will be a POC.

Rivals-to-Lovers will replace Enemies-to-Lovers as the top trope. Less hate and more competition. More academic rivals, magic rivals, popularity rivals, etc. I can see people vibing with this in 2024 instead of the "I hate you but I wanna make out with you" vibes of full-on Enemies-to-Lovers.

JK Rowling will accidentally get herself arrested and/or indicted and she'll be all White Woman about it.

George RR Martin will announce that he "intends" to publish The Winds of Winter before the end of 2025.

A former Disney/Nickelodeon/child star/boyband member will write a memoir describing their trauma and they'll thank Jeannette McCurdy for giving them the courage to do it. The revelations will be insane and unprecedented.

[dorianbrightmusic]

i'm seeing a lot of Pokémon SV DLC analyses where people say 'Oh, Kieran's fixation on Ogrepon is because he sees it as a path to strength; Carmine's bullied him long enough that his shield against admitting his weakness to himself is adoring a legendary creature'. And don't get me wrong – these interpretations certainly hold water – but I've actually been working from basically the opposite angle for all this time.

By all means, Kieran idolises strength, but he inhabits Carmine's shadow – he's the weak sibling, and probably has been for a long time. Yet, rather than fixate on the fantastical power of the Loyal Three, he identifies himself with Ogrepon – the downtrodden, ostracised creature cast out to eke out a subsistence. A terrible demon that wasn't quite terrible enough to cause anyone any lasting harm. The creature defeated by heroes, rather than the perfect, heroic figureheads themselves. He's enamoured with the downtrodden; he sees himself in its grief, in its being cast out and excluded. He's been cast out and excluded all his life (and he can't be a bad person, right? It's not fair – he's hated senselessly, surely, rather than for some reason?) – he sees himself as harmless; so the ogre, too, must be harmless, mis-blamed. Strength is thus in resistance; in growing a shell to tolerate others' inexplicable cruelty. So Kieran looks to Ogerpon, and he thinks that the meek shall inherit the earth, and it gives him the strength to tolerate long nights with poor company. Others are villains – not him, not this creature – and he's safe in the knowledge that at the end of the day, at least an ogre can go down in mythology as the putative sole survivor of its trials.

In this sense, Kieran's like Penny – he finds himself in a position of weakness, of being victimised, and forms himself an armour of being an underdog, of being the thing that bites back. Yet while Penny's position is that the underdog might muster the strength to bite back and restore justice, Kieran's view is that at least the underdog was worth loving. He's inert and preoccupied with his inertia. He can't understand that maybe he could be a human, with the capacity to grow, the capacity to sin. And when Carmine is cruel to him, he reaffirms his own contrarian mindset more – she says I am worth little for my weakness, so my weakness is all I am worth; my weakness is my strength.

And yet he chases strength, because he has to to survive. So when the player comes by, and supports him, maybe he has the safety to walk away from his preoccupation with being an underdog, to enjoy strength for strength's sake. And then, he starts losing, but this time, there are stakes, since he can't just withdraw and be consoled by the fact that withdrawing is right, is right, is right. Thus, he must get stronger. And then, when Ogerpon turns out to favour Juliana, who's become Kieran's idol for all that strength means, rather than Kieran, who's Kieran's selfsame designated weaklingpatheticscumidiot——well, what can Kieran do but fracture, since his whole ideology, his whole premonition that he might have the right to inherit the earth, has been fractured? And, under stress, he pivots from one extreme to the other. All he knows is that weakness is now unbearable. He must get stronger. Must get stronger. Must get stronger—because otherwise he's doomed, he's nothing. He has no myth to dissolve his identity in any longer, so he reshapes himself around the only other standard he's ever known. And it twists him and it breaks him into tiny pieces, because suddenly, the last thing he can bear to be is Kieran: Kieran, the downtrodden and meek boy. He has to flip on his axis; he must become the designated villain of his story by popular imagination, or else be subsumed in the fact that he's going to die someday without any place in the world. He has to play a part, because he's been consigned to one so long, and he can't think of anything other than heroes and villains, enemies and martyrs. He can't be the bad guy. Strength is now goodness; weakness is now evil. And he can't reconcile who he thought he was with who he must become, and as a result, all he can do is try to destroy the person who's destroyed his ideology.

[edablair]

Hi!! This is for all my Russian/Slavic bitches ᕙ⁠(͡⁠°⁠‿⁠͡⁠°⁠)⁠ᕗ

(English is not my first language! There may be grammatical or/and punctuation mistakes)

.•★•.

★ Logan finds some of your habits a little... strange.

★ Like the way you sometimes fake spit three times over your left shoulder and knock on something wood three times.

"... and like, if I ever get cancer... ugh." Rolling your eyes, you knock on the wooden table leg, spitting and saying "Не дай Бог". (God forbid)

"What was that for?"

You meet his gaze as he arches an eyebrow in bewilderment, waiting for your clarification.

"Oh, well, you know. It's to make sure nothing bad happens. It's an omen thing."

★ Omens. Yeah, you mention them a lot. Like the time Logan walked past you whistling, and you almost unconsciously barked at him something like, "Не свисти — денег не будет."¹ Or the time he ate a slice of apple off the tip of a knife.

"Не ешь с ножа — злым будешь."²

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Don't mind it. Just a habit." you explained, leaving the poor bewildered Canadian in the kitchen.

★ The only thing worse is your "domovoy". If Logan loses anything, the first thing he'll hear from you is, "Домовой, домовой. Поиграй да отдай."³ And he chuckles, shaking his head. As if some domovoy is gonna help him find the keys he put somewhere... Oh, they there are.

★ If someone drops a spoon? "К гостям." (To guests)⁴ If by chance a dish is broken? "На удачу." (For good luck). If a nasty bird poops on his favorite jacket? Turns out it's a good thing too.⁵

"Are all Russians superstitious, or are you just the way I am?"

"I'm not superstitious."

He's lost for a moment.

"Then what's the point of all this your things?"

"It's always like that. The least superstitious people follow superstitions."

"Yeah, tell me you don't believe in God with all your 'God forbid' stuff."

"I'm an atheist, Logan."

★ You got him. Now he doesn't understand you at all, and you're smiling and giggling, almost like you're mocking him.

(Masterlist)

A little explanation from me!! Yes, more often the most unbelievers and the least superstitious follow superstitions. Why? Because of upbringing. People grow up surrounded by northern relatives, adopt their habits, and then, when they have already formed their worldview, can not get rid of northern habits (I'm like this) ヽ('ω')ﾉ

1) The phrase "Don't whistle - you won't have any money." was often said in Rus' to an idler. Because it was believed that a person busy with work would simply have no time for such silly activities. At some point, people who often whistled began to be called lazy.

2) "Don't eat with a knife, you'll be evil." Like, those who eat from a knife become sharp, jealous and aggressive. There is also a version that a knife "cuts the mind" — by eating with a knife, one can become stupid, lose knowledge.

3) Domovoy — in Slavic peoples home spirit, mythological master and patron of the house, ensuring the normal life of the family, fertility, health of people and animals. Sometimes, when a thing is lost somewhere in the house, they say, "Балуется домовой." (Domovoy is playing around.) And for him to return the thing, they say, "Domovoy, Domovoy. Play with it and give it back."

4) If you dropped a dessert spoon, expect to meet uninvited guests who will come to your house with a small child. And if you let a tablespoon out of your hands, acquaintances, friends or work colleagues will come to your house in the near future.

5) Bird feces on the shoulder is usually considered a symbol of protection from a guardian angel or spirit. It is seen as a sign that you are being watched over and protected from all evil.